


Sweet Home Baker Street

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Don't copy to another site, F/M, M/M, Selective Amnesia, idiots to lovers, or is it???, the Sweet Home Alabama-inspired AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 49,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: Remember that Wednesday John lost because Sherlock put something in his tea? John doesn't. It comes back to bite him in the arse.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 767
Kudos: 541





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to yet another Johnlock S3 fix-it. As some of you may know, I always post a new work on my birthday, so here we go. This year, I'm celebrating half a life of posting fanfiction. Yay!
> 
> Important: I am neither British nor married and I don't have first clue about how any of this works in real life. For the purposes of this story, you need to apply for a marriage licence at your local council at least two weeks before you get married and both partners need to sign the divorce papers for the divorce to take effect. I'm asking you to suspend your disbelief and work with me here :-)

This story has a lot of beginnings and, as with any complex series of events, we can never be quite sure where the real beginning is. So let's try out a couple of them.

It all began on a rainy February morning, when John Watson and his fiancée, Mary, went to the registrar's office to file for a marriage licence. They had an appointment with a Mrs Humperdinck, who smiled and spoke in honey-syrupy tones as she greeted them and accepted their IDs and showed them which forms to fill in while she did a standard search for their names on her computer.

Both the smile and the syrup disappeared as if someone had flicked a switch.

"I'm sorry but I cannot grant you your licence."

John and Mary shared a look. "Pardon?"

Mrs Humperdinck put on a rather frosty approximation of her previous smile. "We do not allow polygamy in this country."

"Yes, we're aware," John said impatiently. "I don't see how that could possibly affect us."

The woman pursed her lips. "It appears, Dr Watson, that you are already married."

John blinked at her. "Come again?"

"It says here," and she turned her screen so John could look at it, "that you are already married."

"Listen, there must be some sort of mistake," John told her. "I'm sure I would remember getting married. It's not something you forget."

"I can assure you, if it says so in our files, it is correct," Mrs Humperdinck informed him with no little injured pride. "I'm looking at your marriage certificate right now and it looks in perfect order."

"Let me see that," John demanded, momentarily forgetting any hint of politeness.

She turned the screen again and both he and Mary leaned forward to look at what was doubtlessly a marriage certificate for one Dr. John Watson and-

"Sherlock?" Mary asked, baffled. "You married _Sherlock_?"

John stared at the certificate, which bore what were unmistakably his and Sherlock's signatures and therefore created an entire new reality he had not previously been aware of. "I ... don't know."

"Well," Mrs Humperdinck said, clearly torn between thinking him an idiot and wondering if he might truly not know. "You will have to get a divorce before you can get married to Miss Morstan here."

"I-" John frowned at the certificate. "But this was issued three years ago! He ... he died four months later."

Mrs Humperdinck's demeanour softened. "Oh, I am frightfully sorry, my dear. You should have said! If you can provide a death certificate for your husband, we can-"

John, mind reeling from someone casually referring to Sherlock as his "husband" shook his head. "No ... no, he didn't die. Not really, I mean. Faked it, didn't he?"

"So ... he is alive at this point in time?" Judging by the confusion in her voice, Mrs Humperdinck was one of the few people who didn't read the news.

"Yes of course."

"Then the certificate is perfectly valid," Mrs Humperdinck said firmly. "Unless you can provide a factually correct death certificate, you will have to get a divorce to proceed."

*****

Or perhaps our story begins four months earlier, on a cold but surprisingly sunny day in early November when John came to visit 221b Baker Street after two long, painful years of living elsewhere, to tell Mrs Hudson that he was getting married.

"Well, planning to. I'm going to ask, anyway."

"Married?" Mrs Hudson echoed. "So soon after Sherlock?"

In hindsight, perhaps that question had been a bit more loaded than John had noticed at the time. And perhaps there was a reason for her utter disbelief when John once again reminded her that he and Sherlock never were a couple. Perhaps this was because she had been one of the witnesses to sign the marriage certificate, though she thought it tactless to mention it right then, when John was finally moving on. And what reason would she have had to mention it? Sherlock was dead and there was no reason to bring up painful memories.

Even if she had thought to mention it, John would still have ended up at the Landmark that very night in an uncomfortable suit, atrocious moustache, with a ring box in his pocket and an obnoxious French waiter hovering at his elbow at just the wrong moment.

"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. It lends anonymity to waiters and distinction to old friends."

John stared. Stared and stared and stared and couldn't for the life of him process the sight in front of him. He wasn't quite clear on the events of the rest of the evening, only remembered shoving Sherlock to the floor with his hands around his neck and a lot of yelling, remembered lunging across a table at him and very definitely recalled headbutting him in the face. At that point, they were no longer in the Landmark and he didn't much care to know how they had left the place.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, was trying to explain and giving all the wrong explanations about the methodology and none whatsoever on his reasoning and John had enough of that very quickly.

In his state of shock, he didn't notice the hunted look in Sherlock's eyes, the stiff way in which he held his body, the little glances he shot at Mary.

Instead, he simply hailed a cab and left.

And he didn't speak to Sherlock again for the following four months.

*****

But of course, if you wanted to be very precise, the events leading up to John's discovery of his marriage were actually kicked into gear a full three years earlier. It was March, four months before Sherlock's supposed death, and Sherlock had spent the past week working on a case involving various victims of home robberies with a time-limited memory loss. The case was a solid 9 and Sherlock was happier than the Grinch at Easter.

He had gotten to investigate eight crime scenes, made three people burst into tears and John had already stepped in twice to prevent anyone from punching Sherlock in the face. The case could hardly get any better.

And, on top of that, Sherlock had spent the entire night wide awake in the kitchen with his extensive chemistry equipment while John slept upstairs, undisturbed and unaware of what was to come.

He woke at half past eight and stumbled down the stairs and into the bathroom with a muttered "G' morning" towards his flatmate, who grunted a greeting and promptly flicked on the kettle so the tea would be ready by the time John wanted some.

Precisely twelve minutes later, John returned from one of his army-efficient showers, looking marginally more awake and giving Sherlock a pleased smile when he discovered a freshly brewed cup of tea waiting for him at a safe distance from Sherlock's lab equipment.

In hindsight, it might be said that John should have known better. It might be suggested that he should have been wary, should have known not to touch any drink Sherlock had prepared for him without strict supervision.

But that would be blaming the victim and, quite frankly, no one should have to be on their guard in case their flatmate and best friend decided to put some interesting chemicals into their morning tea. In point of fact, said flatmate and best friend really should have learned by now that this was not the done thing.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had not yet reached a point where "for the case!" was trumped by "basic decency".

And so John drank his cup of tea without any apparent issues. It tasted like tea, contained the correct amount of milk and no sugar, and was about as ordinary as a cup of tea could possibly be hoped to be.

It was therefore quite a surprise when, three years later, John learned that the tea had in fact contained a little something extra and that he had managed to forget everything that had happened that day without even realising that there was a gap in his memory.

To the best of John's knowledge, he had come down, had a cup of tea, and Sherlock had announced that the case was solved.

And that should have been it, if only that forgotten Wednesday hadn't happened.

This, then, was the real beginning. A day that only happened in theory and that consequently threw John's life off its chosen course and into uncharted waters.

The day he married Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

How do you ask the husband you never knew you had for a divorce if you haven't even spoken to him in four months?

John's approach, though not recommended by experts, was to send Mary home with promises to sort this mess out immediately, jump into a cab and head to 221b Baker Street, a place he had technically promised himself not to set foot in anytime soon, and barge right through the door in a fury that would have been towering if only he had been half a foot taller.

The hallway looked very much the same, which didn't help the odd sense of vertigo John experienced at the mere thought of returning to what had been - and, if he was entirely honest with himself, still was - home.

Still, he only spared it a passing glance on his furious rush up the stairs and a moment later he burst into the sitting room, where Sherlock, who had been standing on the sofa, pinning papers to the wall, took one look at him, lost his footing and promptly toppled backwards. He managed to catch himself before he could smash his head on the coffee table, but it was a near miss and John instinctively twitched forward to catch him, as he would have done three years ago.

He stopped himself just in time and Sherlock ended up sitting on the floor, staring at him as if he were a mirage, his eyes wide with surprise and something that looked suspiciously like joy. Deep inside his chest, John felt some of his anger soften a little at the sight. God, he had missed the mad bastard.

"John." It was less a word and more of a gasp and there was honest surprise in Sherlock's face. For once in his life, John had caught him off his guard.

He swallowed, clenching his fingers around the papers in his hand. "Sherlock."

God, had it really been four months? He caught himself drinking in the sight of Sherlock, still sat on the floor and apparently not yet ready to get up. The riotous tumble of his dark curls, the iridescent eyes, the cheekbones, sharp enough to cut. He had lost weight and there were dark rings under his eyes. Not sleeping or eating enough. Was that a stubble on his chin? John had only seen Sherlock unshaven once and that had been a deliberate choice for a case. This, though ... this looked like neglect. It sent an odd pang through him.

John made to run a hand over his face, which reminded him of the papers he hadn't let go of since leaving the registrar's office.

"I, uh ... how are you?" Sherlock asked.

John blinked. Small talk? From Sherlock? "Bloody furious," he said.

Sherlock lowered his gaze. "I said I was sorry, John."

He had, at some point, but it hardly mattered now.

"Not about that," John sighed. And, when Sherlock's gaze snapped back to him, hastily added: "Well, not _just_ about that."

Sherlock finally struggled to his feet, rather gracelessly. "Then why are you here? Do you wish to yell at me some more? Kick me in the teeth, perhaps?"

The reminder made John flinch. Violence had always come too easily to him. "No. I'm ... listen, I'm sorry about that. I was-"

"Angry," Sherlock finished for him. "You were angry. I understand that, John."

John shook his head. "Yeah but that's not an excuse. I shouldn't have attacked you. It wasn't .... good."

"I never wanted nor needed an apology from you," Sherlock told him. "I can hardly claim to have gone about it in the best possible way. Now, why are you here, then?" He paused and something in his tone changed. "Are ... are you coming home?"

Oh.

John swallowed. It hadn't even occurred to him that Sherlock might think that. That Sherlock might want that. He seemed to have gotten on just fine without John for two years, after all.

"I, uh ... no." He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, suddenly feeling awkward. "Mary and I went to the registrar's office today."

Sherlock looked confused. "Yes?"

"To get our marriage licence," John prompted, hoping Sherlock would catch on by himself.

His expression was inscrutable. "Am I supposed to congratulate you?"

John snorted. "I wasn't expecting that, no. Would've been nice, though."

"Congratulations," Sherlock bit out, sounding not at all like he meant it.

John sighed. "Yeah, whatever. We can't get married."

Sherlock blinked at him.

" _Apparently_ ," John said, now finding some of his earlier anger again, "I can't get married because I already am."

It was just possible that Sherlock had gone a little pale at this but it was hard to tell. He looked as if he hadn't been outside in weeks.

John took a step closer to him. "Apparently," he said softly, "at some point about two and a half years ago, I married you."

Perhaps it was the way Sherlock flinched or the way he refused to meet John's gaze that finally made the full extend of what had happened sink in.

" _I married you!_ " John repeated, half surprised and half furious. "We got married! And I don't recall a single second of that. No vows, no celebration, no rings. So you can imagine my surprise when the lady at the registrar's office showed me a marriage certificate with both our names on it! Do you have anything at all to say about that?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again.

John gave a curt nod. "That's what I thought. Here."

He held out the papers and Sherlock slowly reached out and took them. "What's that?"

Was he deliberately acting stupid? It didn't usually take him that long to catch on, did it?

"They're divorce papers," John said. "And you're going to sign them."

Sherlock stared down at the papers and then dropped them on the coffee table.

"No."

*****

"No?" John echoed. "What do you mean, no?"

"I meant exactly what I said." Sherlock crossed his arms. "No."

"Sherlock ..."

The exasperation in John's voice, on his face, was achingly familiar. Sherlock would gladly defy him over this if only he could win himself another minute or two of John's much-missed presence.

"I'm not signing that."

"Why?" John demanded and Sherlock realised he had a long list of perfectly fine reasons and couldn't possibly utter a single one of them.

He merely shrugged instead.

John sighed. "Listen ... if this is some sort of revenge for me not speaking to you for four months, I'll have you know that I was perfectly justif-"

"It isn't," Sherlock interrupted him, though a part of him couldn't help but think it was. Being away for two whole years had been torture, and not just figuratively, but these last four months of John refusing any contact had worn him down.

"You barge in here with no greeting whatsoever, not as much as a 'how do you do' and start making demands like I'm some sort of trained monkey. So no, I won't sign anything. You're not in a position to ask anything of me, John. I have already gone above and beyond for you and it hasn't bought me anything. So pardon me for not wishing to continue down that path."

"For me?" John repeated and there was that glint in his eye that Sherlock had always loved to provoke in him. "When exactly have you ever done anything for me? Because I recall you leaving for two years and letting me think you were dead."

"Is that what you think happened?" Sherlock asked, letting his shoulders drop. "Two years and four months and you never once wondered...?"

"Wondered what?"

Sherlock shook his head, feeling his throat close up. No, he couldn't possibly speak now. He hadn't slept through the night once since coming back, he wasn't going to drag it all back up in broad daylight as well. "Forget it."

John crossed his arms. "Fine. I will ... if you sign the papers."

Sherlock gave him a long look, taking in John's stance, his familiar face. At least he had shaved off that horrible moustache.

He had finally come. He had come here and he wasn't going to stay. After four endless months that had been John-less though they needn't have been, he had finally come back, only to leave Sherlock for good. He couldn't bear to let it happen. Not like this, with so much unsaid.

"In that case," he said softly, "I hope you enjoy being disappointed."


	3. Chapter 3

John had gone again, stormed out without another word.

Sherlock stood in the sitting room, the slam of the door still reverberating through his skull, and wondered how long it would take John to come back.

He glanced down at the papers on the coffee table.

John had only just found out about their marriage and already he wanted a divorce. Well, perhaps Sherlock shouldn't be so surprised. But then again, deep down, he had hoped that John might remember. It wasn't as if Sherlock had coerced him into it, after all.

He could make out John's rather shaky signature on the papers. He must have signed them either immediately after they had been printed or on the cab ride to 221b. So - either in a fit of anger or as a casual aside in a moving vehicle, not even worth taking the time to do it properly. Just a silly little formality. Sherlock tried not to let that get to him and failed.

Of course the fact that John couldn't even remember their wedding was a bit of a let-down, had been from the start, but Sherlock had never thought to mention it further. They were married and lived together and that was enough. Only after his supposed death had it occurred to him that he needed it to be more than that and he had spent two years living for the moment when he could come home to his husband and ask him to be just that - his husband. Instead, he had returned to find John about to propose to a random, boring woman.

Had no one ever mentioned it to him? Not Mycroft, not even Mrs Hudson? How was it possible that John had managed to evade learning of their marriage for so long?

There was a knock on the door and a moment later Mrs Hudson poked her head in. "Hoo-hoo, Sherlock dear. Are you all right? I heard the door slam and someone stomping down the stairs and I thought I'd better see how you are doing. We don't want a repeat of your last angry client."

_'You know, the one who beat you unconscious,'_ she didn't say but they both thought.

Sherlock winced. "It wasn't a client, Mrs Hudson. It was ... it was John."

She clapped a hand to her mouth. "John?! Goodness! And he didn't even say hello."

"He didn't say hello to me either, if it makes you feel any better," Sherlock muttered, sinking onto the sofa. "Or goodbye."

Mrs Hudson sat down next to him and laid a hand on his back. He wouldn't have accepted such a gesture before, but these days Mrs Hudson's affection was all that got him through the days. "Oh, my poor boy. Do you think he'll be back?"

"Definitely," Sherlock sighed. "I didn't sign."

"Sign what? Why would John want you to sign anything?"

Sherlock gestured at the coffee table. "Well, he wants a divorce."

Mrs Hudson reached for the papers. "A divorce?! Well that's a bit out of the blue, don't you think? It's been two and a half years. Granted, you were dead for most of them, but really. I'm sure you can talk him round when he returns. Divorce! Well, I never!"

Sherlock hung his head. "I'm afraid it's quite hopeless, Mrs H. He wants it so he can marry that ridiculous girlfriend of his." He sniffed. "He didn't even ... didn't even remember we were married at all."

Mrs Hudson, in one of her usual emphatetic moments, hugged him.

*****

John closed the door to his and Mary's flat behind him with a sigh and leaned against the wood for a moment. Two years and three months after his death, he and Sherlock had just had the most bizarre conversation in the history of their friendship, if you could still call it that.

Things had been said on both sides that John wasn't happy with. He could have handled the situation better, that much was certain. Of course Sherlock would be defensive and contrary.

"John? Is everything all right?"

Right. Mary.

He took off his shoes and jacket and stepped into their sitting room, where Mary was seated on the sofa, looking at him expectantly.

"Everything's fine."

She smiled. "So you've sorted it, then?"

"I- no. Not yet. He refused to sign."

The smile fell from her face. "Really?"

"Said I was in no position to make demands of him," John told her, sinking onto the sofa next to her. "I admit I could have gone about it differently. So I'll let him stew for a bit and in a day or two he'll sign them."

Mary didn't look convinced. "But he can't just hold you hostage like that."

John snorted. "He's not. It's hardly a hostage situation, Mary."

"Well, he's got you at his mercy and won't let you go. How else would you describe that?"

John thought of the fleeting look of joy on Sherlock's face at his appearance in the flat and couldn't help but think that he may be many things, but at Sherlock's mercy wasn't one of them. "He'll sign them," he repeated, more confidently than he truly felt. "He's not a bad person. He'll do the right thing. Sometimes it just takes him a while to get around to it."

And he very emphatically didn't think:  _'Sometimes it takes him two years.'_ Because he didn't want to wait another two years for Sherlock to get his act as a decent human being together. He certainly didn't want to wait another two years until he and Mary could get married. Waiting didn't go with the whirlwind romance of their relationship. Waiting might make him stop and think, which was something John had avoided doing ever since Sherlock had died.

"Well, love, you know him best," Mary said, reaching for his hand and lacing her fingers with his. "Maybe you should ... I don't know ... try to be friends with him again? I'm sure once he sees how happy we are, he will sign the papers for you. He's your friend, right? Surely he will want you to be happy."

"Yeah," John murmured. "Maybe that will work."

She laid her head on his shoulder, drawing her legs up onto the sofa cushion. "How did it happen anyway? Getting married, I mean."

John blinked. "I ... don't know. I have no recollection of it at all. But he didn't seem surprised to hear about it, so he must have known."

"Didn't you ask?"

"I was too busy trying to talk him into signing the divorce papers to think too much about why I needed them in the first place. I suppose I'll have to ask, eventually. Why on earth can't I remember?"

"You don't think he made you do it, do you? That he gave you GHB, made you suggestible, and just ..." she trailed off but he knew what she meant and hated the thought. It sent a cold shiver down his spine and his entire being rebelled against it. Sherlock was many things, but he would never do something like this.

"No," he said. "I don't know what happened, but I'm as sure as I can be that he wouldn't have done something like that."

"But you would have said the same thing if someone had suggested he faked his death for two years," Mary said softly. "Maybe you don't know him as well as you would like to think you do."

She had a point there and that thought made something in his chest give a pang.

"I'll talk to him again tomorrow," he said. "Maybe you're right and us being friends again might make him see reason."


	4. Chapter 4

John did return the next day. This time, Sherlock had prepared for the possibility and had showered, shaved and put on a fresh suit. The way John had frowned at his stubbled jaw yesterday hadn't escaped his notice. Few things ever did.

Even though he had expected it, hoped for it, waited for it, the sight of John in the doorway still made Sherlock's breath catch and hope unfurl in his chest. He tried to shove it down, reminding himself to be wary. John was as stubborn as they came - he would not change his mind so easily and it would be stupid to think otherwise.

Still, the mood was different today, he could tell so immediately from John's posture.

"Good morning," John said, awkwardly hovering in the kitchen doorway. "I was hoping we could talk."

Sherlock blinked at him, trying to think of a suitable response.

When it became clear that none would be forthcoming, John forced a half-smile and raised his hand, which held a brown paper bag. "Have you eaten? I brought croissants."

It was an unnecessary thing to say - they were still warm and Sherlock could smell them. It made his stomach clench and he tried to remember when he had last eaten. He thought he vaguely recalled a slice of toast but couldn't be sure when that had been or if anything had accompanied it.

"Make yourself at home," he muttered, pushing the chair opposite himself away from the table with his foot.

John smiled, set down the bag and went hunting for plates and mugs.

Before he knew it, Sherlock found himself making tea. People had always made a lot of silly assumptions about the two of them and Sherlock's personal pet peeve out of all of them had been that everyone thought John made the tea. Or the coffee. Or, in fact, any heated beverage, ranging from hot chocolate to mulled wine. All of these had always been Sherlock's forte and when he didn't make the tea but tea was unaccountably present, it must have just sort of happened because it sure as hell wouldn't have been made by John.

They fell into that old pattern easily, moving around each other in what Sherlock still thought of as 'their' kitchen as if it had been two days instead of more than two years since they had last lived here together. It was a bittersweet feeling and he noticed the exact moment John became aware of it, halfway through sitting down at what was now a table set for a late breakfast. John faltered and somehow got his foot tangled around one of the table legs, managing to all but fall onto his chair.

Sherlock wordlessly pushed a cup of tea in his direction. If John wanted to talk, he could talk.

"Thanks. Case?" John asked, nodding towards the file Sherlock had been pouring over and which had now been pushed almost off the table.

"Lestrade brought it by last night," Sherlock muttered. "It's barely a five but I owe him a favour. I'll have it solved by this afternoon."

"'Course you will," John murmured and it sounded unaccountably fond.

"It helps pass the time."

John looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Are you telling me you haven't got anything to do?"

Sherlock shrugged, pretending to be very busy spreading strawberry jam on his croissant. "Haven't really been in the mood for cases recently. It's not the same."

_'You aren't here.'_

The words hung in the air between them, unspoken and all the louder for it.

John lowered his gaze. "Yeah, well. I'm sure it'll come to you. You just need a proper case, that's all."

"No," Sherlock told him, deciding to face this head on. "I need someone to work the cases with me."

"Lestrade-"

"Lestrade has enough on his plate already," Sherlock interrupted.

John floundered for a moment. "Well, I'm sure Molly would be hap-"

"Molly is getting married next month," Sherlock said, talking right over him. "Which you would know, if you had bothered to stay in touch with her. Or anyone, really. Mrs Hudson has been quite upset. You didn't even stop to say hello to her yesterday."

There was a clink as John set his mug down, rather forcefully. "That's rich, coming from you."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked. "You know they'd never say anything of their own accord. I'm the only one willing to face you even when you are in a strop. Believe me, by now I am more than used to you being angry with me. I hardly see why anyone else should have to face your inability to deal with being called out on your mistakes."

John gaped at him. " _My_ mistakes? Mine? What about you, then, huh? Jumping off that roof, making us all think-" He broke off and swallowed.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea but kept John in his sight over the rim of his cup. "That wasn't a mistake," he said calmly. "That was a calculated, deliberate decision. It doesn't make the results any better but believe me when I say I took no joy in it. Just in case you were wondering."

He couldn't help the bitterness that swung along in his voice. To give up his life in every possible sense of the term and then be punished for it was not something he had expected to happen.

Before John could get into the topic some more, Sherlock added: "Anyway, you wanted to talk. So talk."

There was a moment's silence as John worked through what he wanted to say. Sherlock took another bite of his croissant, privately amazed at how calm he was. John was here and would be coming back even if he stormed off.

"I wanted to apologise for yesterday," John said and Sherlock narrowly avoided choking on his breakfast. "I shouldn't have barged in or talked to you the way I did. It was out of line."

Sherlock blinked. "All right. Apology accepted."

John actually looked surprised. "Really?"

"Of course. Neither of us was at his best yesterday. We've both had time to calm down since then."

John frowned, clearly suspicious. That was fair - out of the two of them, it was rare for Sherlock to be the reasonable one in these things. And yet here they were.

"So..." John hesitated, licked his lips. Sherlock forced himself not to let his gaze linger. "Does that mean you're going to sign..."

"No," Sherlock said simply.

"But you just said-"

"I said nothing of the sort," Sherlock told him, trying to hold on to the calmness he had worked so hard to cultivate. "I merely accepted your apology and agreed neither of us was above reproach yesterday. It doesn't change the facts of what was said, though the tone it was said in left something to be desired."

"You're not signing the divorce papers," John said again, as if still in disbelief. "Why?"

Sherlock gave him a long look. "Because I don't wish to."

John gaped at him.

"There's nothing for me to gain," Sherlock added before John could get precisely the right idea about his reasoning. "It's been four months and these papers are the only reason you came to speak to me at all. Perhaps it is that easy for you to discard all that we had for the sake of a sulk, but I refuse to engage. I have given you time, I have kept my distance. I waited for you to come to me so we could talk. The moment I sign these papers, you'll be out the door and I won't see you again."

"You can't know that," John argued, rather lamely.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, feeling the corner of his mouth curl up in a bitter smile. "Can't I? Tell me, John: if you didn't need this signature, if you hadn't found out about our marriage, would you have ever come here again?"

John didn't reply. Sherlock downed half his tea to hide how much that hurt.

"Precisely," he said.

"So you want ... what? My forgiveness for what you did in return for your signature?" John demanded. "Fine. I forgive you. There. Happy now?"

"You used to be more convincing when you lied," Sherlock said and looked away. "Are you truly in such a rush to never see me again?"

"After all you've done?" John asked. "Why wouldn't I?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Since my supposed crime was to leave you behind, I don't see how you staying away now is anything but added punishment for the both of us."

He raised his head again to look John square in the eye once more. "I did not wish to leave, John. I certainly did not wish to leave you behind. If you cannot accept that I was given no choice in the matter, then I don't know what else to tell you. It is the truth, whether you choose to believe it or not."

*****

John watched his former best friend carefully but couldn't find any hint of a lie in Sherlock's face. Oh, he had always been a good liar but it had mostly worked if you didn't know him or if you weren't expecting a lie. John had gotten quite good at telling when Sherlock was having him on, or at least he liked to think so. This time, there was no hint of guile in Sherlock's face. If anything, he seemed to be actively stopping himself from saying more.

He desperately wanted to know what it was. The words 'what happened on that roof?' were stuck in his throat but he couldn't get them out, couldn't make himself ask, afraid of what the answer might be. Afraid of being dragged back into the life he had missed so much it hurt. He knew, deep down, that he would not be able to bear losing Sherlock like that for a second time. It was best to remain detached.

"Tell me about our wedding," he said instead. "How did that happen? And why, pray tell, do I not recall a single moment of it?"

Sherlock did look uncomfortable at that.

"Ah," he said in that tone he had when he really wished John hadn't broached a topic. Well, too late for that.

"Sherlock..."

He sighed. "I was investigating those serial robberies where all the victims suffered from memory loss. Do you remember?"

John did. "Vaguely. That was a nine, wasn't it? I mostly remember you not sleeping and experimenting with various compounds to find out how the robbers had caused the memory loss..."

He trailed off as his mind went 'click'. "You didn't!"

"Well what else was I supposed to do?" Sherlock asked, as if that was in any way a justifiable reason.

"Literally anything else, damn it!" John snapped. "We've been over this, Sherlock. No bloody experiments on me. None!"

He stood and paced through their - through _the_ kitchen. "I don't believe this. You drugged me! And then you, what, made me marry you?"

"No!" Sherlock almost shouted the word, eyes wild. "I would _never_ \- I didn't make you do anything whatsoever. I couldn't even be sure it was working. John, I checked and triple-checked and I swear to you there was no mind-altering substance in this at all, nothing that would have made you act any differently than you normally would have. It was a simple memory wipe. I know my word doesn't mean much to you but I still have the compound. You can have it sent to any laboratory, they'll confirm everything I just said. I took a different compound myself and that didn't have any effect at all."

That was surprisingly vehement. But then again, John had all but accused him of using a date-rape drug on him. No, that wasn't Sherlock's style at all if he wanted something. Much like his brother, he preferred subtle manipulation over outright drugging people. And John very much didn't want to have to deal with even the idea of Mycroft right now. So his mind snagged onto the only part of this statement that he felt he could respond to.

He buried his face in his hands. "You ... Sherlock, we've been over that, too. You can't just make your own drugs. Or take someone else's, for that matter! How often have we had this discussion?"

"It was instrumental for the case," Sherlock said. "And, as I said, it didn't have any effect whatsoever on me. I still remember everything that happened. Perhaps my history meant I was immune to the compound. Either way, I swear to you I did not in any way coerce you into getting married."

John sighed and lowered his arms. "And I'm just supposed to believe that, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, looking a bit hurt at the idea that John wouldn't take his word for it. "But if you are in doubt, you can ask Mrs Hudson and my brother."

"Mrs Hudson and Mycroft? What have they got to do with anything?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he was stupid. "Well someone had to be the witnesses, didn't they? Are you telling me you didn't even properly look at the marriage certificate? They both signed it."

John paused in his pacing. It hadn't even occurred to him to check and he felt a bit silly about it now. "But ... neither of them ever mentioned anything to me," he said. "Not in the days or weeks after, not even after you-" He broke off, still unable to say it, even with Sherlock sitting right there, alive and well and currently eating a third croissant, apparently without noticing. John wondered how long it had been since Sherlock had had a proper meal.

"I'm not sure why Mycroft never mentioned it," Sherlock said in between bites. "You'll have to ask him yourself. But when I realised that you didn't remember, I told Mrs Hudson not to make a fuss about it that would make you uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable?" John echoed. "What about me being _uncomfortable_ when I found out I was already married when I took my fiancée to the registrar's office? What if you had never ... left? Would you have ever mentioned it again?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought it might come in handy if either of us was ever admitted to the hospital with an injury or another health condition. Considering our line of work, it only seemed a matter of time. I assumed you would prefer having me there rather than your sister, provided she was sober enough to come."

John flinched at the reminder of Harry but couldn't refute the argument. "And you didn't think to mention it to me at any point?"

"I thought you might throw a fit and demand a divorce for no reason other than that getting married _isn't something people do on a whim_ ," Sherlock said. "Which would have put us back to square one regarding hospital admissions. So I chose not to mention it. And then the decision was taken out of my hands."

Sighing, John returned to his chair and sat down again. He remembered his cooling tea and reached for the mug like a drowning man reaches for a lifeboat. It tasted exactly the way he remembered Sherlock's tea from Before.

"There's nothing in this cup, is there?" he asked cautiously, if a bit belatedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, John. Tea, hot water, milk. Just as you like it."

He was right, of course. The tea was indeed perfect. Far better than the stuff Mary made, John thought guiltily.

"So what happened then?" he asked, setting the cup down. "You slipped me whatever it was as an experiment and then what? Did you just make ridiculous suggestions to see if it was having an effect?"

Sherlock flinched. "Why would I do any such thing? The point was to see if you would remember what happened. I would have been perfectly fine enjoying a normal day with you."

"Then how did we end up getting married?" John demanded, leaning forward. "Seeing as I know from experience that you can't just waltz into a registrar's office and get married at the drop of a hat." He paused as the obvious explanation occurred to him. "Oh no. Mycroft? Really?"

"As I said," Sherlock murmured, "we needed witnesses."

"And your brother just ... let you marry me," John said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Why on earth would he do that?"

Sherlock shrugged, eyes firmly on his plate. "He thought it would make me more ... settled, I suppose. Probably thought you'd be a good influence. Or maybe he thought I needed to get laid. I thought it prudent not to ask."

John choked on his own spit.

It took him a good three minutes to recover and convince himself that he wasn't dying. By the time he wiped the involuntary tears from his eyes, Sherlock was watching him with mild concern.

John cleared his throat, wondering if his face really was on fire. "So, uhm ... about that..."

Sherlock looked at him, his face inscrutable. "About what?"

"We didn't ...?" John's voice actually gave out.

Sherlock blinked and, to John's eternal surprise, a light pink blush spread across his cheekbones. "No."

"Oh, thank God," John muttered.

"Don't worry. You're still exactly as heterosexual today as you were three years ago, John." Sherlock sounded a bit put out and it suddenly occurred to John that being grateful you hadn't shagged someone and telling them to their face wasn't exactly nice.

"I didn't mean it like that," he sighed. "You've seen yourself in a mirror, I'm sure you already know you could have your pick out of a crowd if you wanted."

Hell, people would probably form a disorderly queue if Sherlock so much as hinted at wanting a shag.

_'And he married me'_ John thought, suddenly amazed by that fact. _'Is that because it'd be a good reason to decline if anyone got too persistent?'_

He didn't dare ask the question out loud but now it was there, he couldn't quite stop thinking about it.

Sherlock made no reply to John's comment and he decided to drop the topic.

"So what are we going to do now?" he asked.

"That depends entirely on you," Sherlock told him, still disturbingly calm, though the blush had faded from his face as if it had never been there. John was almost willing to accept he had imagined it, if Sherlock wasn't still avoiding direct eye contact.

"On me?"

"I already told you where I stand," Sherlock reminded him. "I have no incentive whatsoever to sign these papers and plenty of reasons not to. Until and unless this changes, we are at an impassè."

John sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

"Talk to me," Sherlock said immediately. "Give me a chance to explain."

John hadn't expected him having an answer readily available. He floundered a bit before replying. "I ... I don't know. You left, Sherlock. You killed yourself and you made me watch. I'm not sure there is any explanation you could possibly give that I would be willing to hear or able to believe."

He could see the hurt flash across Sherlock's face very clearly at that but even the idea of having to listen to Sherlock recounting that day was too much to bear.

"Work with me, then," Sherlock said. "Join me on cases again until you are ready to hear what I've got to say. Help me fix our friendship."

"And you'll sign the papers if I do?" John asked, wanting to have that condition set in stone.

Sherlock gave him a long look before nodding. "I will. Afterwards."

John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock already had a counter-argument ready. "I don't trust you not to walk away, either."

There was nothing John could say to that.


	5. Chapter 5

John hadn't stayed much longer after Sherlock had repeated his position. His departure hadn't been a surprise and Sherlock consoled himself with the knowledge that they had at least had a late breakfast together and had managed an entire conversation and John hadn't started shouting more than once.

At least they had a deal now.

John would accompany him on cases again. It wasn't a lot but it was still more than he had had since his return. He could be patient. He had been before and he would continue to wait if it meant they got a chance to rebuild the trust they had both lost: John when he had found out that Sherlock had faked his death, and Sherlock when he had come back and learned that John wanted nothing to do with him.

They both needed time to adjust to this new reality they lived in. And perhaps, if Sherlock played his cards right, John would forget all about his request and his fiancée and come back home.

His phone pinged with a text alert, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen and sighed.

_'Another domestic quarrel averted? MH'_

Sherlock made a face at the phone but called his brother anyway.

"I see you're still spying on me," he said as soon as Mycroft answered. "Doesn't it ever get boring?"

"On the contrary, things are just getting interesting again," Mycroft said. "That was the second time John has come to see you in two days. One can only assume what drove him back must have been a substantial development."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "One could assume so, yes. You, on the other hand, would know for sure, seeing as John went to a registrar's office yesterday immediately preceding his visit. A child could figure out the connection, please don't pretend you didn't. I couldn't bear to be related to a moron."

Mycroft tutted at that. "And did you sign them?"

"Sign what?"

"I, too, could not bear to be related to a moron, though you do your best to be one at times," Mycroft said.

Sherlock growled and stood, crossing the sitting room to throw himself onto the sofa. "Of course I didn't sign them, Mycroft. Why on earth would I?"

"Common decency?"

"What reason do I have to be decent?"

"A fair point," Mycroft conceded. "Though that has hardly stopped you in the past. Have you hammered out the terms of your divorce at least?"

Sherlock sighed and pressed his face into the back of the sofa before replying. "He'll accompany me on cases again until he's ready to hear my explanation for why I faked my death. After we've established mutual trust and resumed our previous friendship, I'll sign the papers."

"Will you?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stared at the cracked, aged leather of the sofa, remembering the many times he had seen John sit on it. "I don't know." He swallowed. "I agreed to do it. I told him I would. I won't break his trust again."

"No," Mycroft murmured in his ear. "No, I did not think you would. You would rather break your own heart instead."

"If he chooses to remain committed to marrying her, I won't need it anyway," Sherlock said. "So what does it matter?"

They both knew it mattered a whole lot but Mycroft was kind enough not to say so.

"Be careful, little brother," he said instead and hung up. It was just as well, because Sherlock wasn't in the mood to lie to him.

*****

A case popped up a mere three days later. True to his promise, John agreed to tag along. He couldn't help but feel a small flutter of excitement and no small amount of nostalgia as he ducked under the tape.

"There you are, Sherlock," Lestrade said, turning. "You'll like this o- John! Blimey!"

John grinned. "Hey, Greg. How's it going?"

"Bloody hell, mate, this is a surprise!" Lestrade exclaimed, slapping his back and beaming with open delight. "Didn't think I'd see you around again. Worked it all out, have you?"

"Uh... not really," John said. "It's a sort of trial run, you might say. Call it a trust-building exercise."

"Ah." The DI nodded, turning his head to look at Sherlock, who had marched right past him and was already examining the body. "Can't be easy, I guess. He really did a number on all of us, didn't he?"

"I still haven't forgiven him for it," John told him. "But he's ... well. He had some strong arguments."

"I'll bet," Lestrade muttered. "Well, I'm glad. He's not been in good shape recently, I can tell you. It'll be good to have you back, if only so you can keep an eye on him."

His expression was grim and worried. It put John on instant alert. "What do you mean?"

The DI rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. He's just ... different. Won't talk about what happened while he was gone, looks even paler than he used to. He's lost weight, too - I'm sure you noticed. And he flinches at loud noises now."

John had noticed the weight loss. And Sherlock had flinched a good bit during their recent conversations, though it hadn't been particularly noisy. John frowned. "I haven't really spent much time with him. I'll... I'll keep an eye out. Thanks for the warning."

"Yeah, don't come up behind him," Lestrade said. "He had one of our PCs on the ground with his arm behind his back in two seconds flat. Looked a bit feral, too, and then actually apologised when he realised what had happened. Whatever he's been up to, it can't have been good."

This was new information to John and he took in the constables milling around the crime scene with new eyes. It was true that people were giving Sherlock a wide berth and that everyone was being very careful not to pass too closely behind his back. Donovan was rather obviously hovering diagonally across from him with her arms crossed, sending warning looks at anyone who came too close.

John blinked. The sergeant had never been particularly friendly towards Sherlock but this behaviour was downright protective. Clearly something had shifted at some point.

"Thanks for the warning," he murmured to Greg again and walked over to the body, making sure to approach Sherlock from the side, which earned him a nod from Donovan and slight softening of her scowl.

"Ah, John," Sherlock greeted him. "Take a look at his throat for me, will you?"

John crouched down next to him and did, tilting the victim's head carefully to get a good look. He used his gloved fingers to carefully pry the man's mouth open and peek inside. "Interesting. Looks like someone held him down with one hand on his jaw and shoved something into his mouth and down his throat with the other."

Sherlock wordlessly held a torch at just the right angle to shine into the victim's mouth.

"Looks like some of it may still be lodged in there," John noted. "I don't want to risk pulling it out here but I'm sure it'll be easily extracted during the autopsy. It looks like-" he squinted "-yeah, it looks like some sort of child's toy."

He turned to find Sherlock looking at him, a pleased smile on his face. John couldn't help but smile back.

"See?" Sherlock said to Lestrade, gesturing towards the body. "I told you the case would be child's play."

John couldn't have stopped himself from giggling for all the money in the world, even as Lestrade groaned and buried his face in his hands at what had to be the worst joke he had ever heard.

*****

Of course things didn't continue that smoothly.

Barely five minutes later, Sherlock finished his examination of the crime scene and stood, pulling his gloves off with a snap.

"The victim is in his early thirties, probably some sort of computer engineer going by the state of his right palm. He lives somewhere in South London, most likely Lambeth, and has at least-"

"Wait wait wait wait," Lestrade interrupted. "What's that?"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut with a click. "What's what?"

"That!" The DI pointed at Sherlock's hand. "What is that?"

All eyes promptly went to Sherlock's left hand. John forced himself not to gape, though he did see Donovan's mouth drop open in shock.

Sherlock blinked. "It's a ring," he said slowly, as if he thought Lestrade was a bit slow. "You should know, you've got one yourself. Or used to."

Lestrade frowned. "Yeah, but you're wearing it on your left hand. On your ring finger."

"Yes of course." Sherlock said calmly. "I've been told this is where wedding rings traditionally go. Where else would I put it?"

The silence that followed this statement was deafening.

"You-" Lestrade began in disbelief. "You are married?"

Sherlock lifted his chin. "Why so shocked? Are you disappointed to learn you missed out on something?"

That earned him a round of titters from the officers that had slowly sidled closer, desperate not to miss the show.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Har har. Disappointed you didn't think to invite me, more like it."

He turned to John and John noted with something that was both panic and amusement how the DI's gaze dipped to his own, bare hand. "Did you know about this, John?"

"It came up in our recent conversations, yes," John said blithely, trying to keep a straight face. "It was quite a surprise to me, too."

It was the understatement of the year but he couldn't help himself. Sherlock looked absolutely delighted.

"I'm frankly amazed any woman was willing to spend enough time with you to make the topic of marriage come up at all," Donovan said.

Sherlock turned his head and gave her one of his looks. "It's 2018, Sally. I wouldn't marry a woman if the world was ending. I know you have a brain, do try and use it on occasion."

"Then who-"

"None of your business," Sherlock said immediately. "Now, as I was saying about the victim-"

*****

John listened to Sherlock rattling off his deductions with barely concealed fondness. It had been a long time indeed and he was glad to find that Sherlock still had the ability to amaze him.

And, well, it was admittedly rather funny to watch the Yarders try to keep up with him when they were all still grappling with the new reality they now occupied in which Sherlock Holmes had apparently gone and gotten married without any of them knowing about it.

Still, funny as it undoubtedly was, John couldn't help but wonder how this was going to affect their deal. If Sherlock went around proclaiming himself married - which was factually correct - how was he going to explain his divorce? Then again, if people had a hard time believing he had married someone, they wouldn't have any trouble at all believing that he had gotten divorced.

John was surprised to find that this thought annoyed him. Why wouldn't someone want to marry Sherlock? He was brilliant and gorgeous and, if the mood struck him, unexpectedly kind. He was also accidentally hilarious more often than not. For all his many faults, he wasn't boring.

John could admit to himself that, if he hadn't known the mystery husband was himself, he wouldn't have found it hard to believe at all. Sherlock was loyal, even if he was very careful about hiding it from others. Of course marriage would appeal to him, if he ever lowered himself into entering a relationship with anyone. Even now, despite their shaken trust, John knew that Sherlock was loyal to him and their friendship. Everything Sherlock had said and done recently had proven it.

It didn't make John trust _him_ , though. Perhaps it would come in time, if they managed to salvage their friendship from the smouldering ruins of all that had happened. But really, how could you be friends with someone you had accidentally, unknowingly married? How did you go about being friends with the person you wanted to divorce? It would always be between them, even if their marriage had only ever existed on paper.

Hours later, after John had returned home to the flat he shared with Mary and was lying in bed, unable to sleep, he found himself thinking that it seemed a shame this marriage had never had a chance to be.

As soon as the thought entered his head, he got up and walked into the kitchen in search of a drink. This was a dangerous way of thinking, unhealthy in the extreme, and he would not waste another moment on it.

He went through the motions of making tea to give his hands something to do and keep away from the whiskey he knew was stashed at the back of the top cupboard. Of course, when he actually raised the mug to his lips, he remembered why it had always been Sherlock who made the tea in their flat. His tasted like nothing but disappointment.

Well, that was the life he had chosen, wasn't it? Away from Sherlock and full of disappointing cups of tea. He knew, deep down, that he could just pour it down the drain, put on his shoes and take a cab to Baker Street and Sherlock would brew him a proper cuppa and not ask any questions at all.

John sighed and drank his tea.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter for you all.  
> In this time of international stress, please exercise due caution. Stay safe, wash your hands, download some apps onto your phone to keep you entertained (fitness apps, too, because isolation and quarantine mean less moving around). My regular update schedule will remain unchanged. Time to catch up on that massive "mark for later list"!

When John returned to 221b two days later for a quick visit, he made a point of looking in on Mrs Hudson on his way out. Sherlock's comment about his negligent behaviour where his former landlady was concerned had hit deep.

Mrs Hudson, true to form, was delighted to see him, and only scolded him a little bit about his long held radio silence.

“Sit down and have a cuppa,” she ordered afterwards, gesturing to a chair. “I know you can't make a cup to save your life.”

John did as he was told and accepted the tea with a murmured thanks.

“Oh, it's so good to see you back here again,” she said, taking the chair opposite him. “I admit I did start to worry. You were gone for so long.”

“ _I_ was gone for long?” John asked. “Sherlock was dead for two years!”

“And I have barely seen you for two years and four months,” she said calmly. “At least Sherlock came home as soon as he could. He knows where he belongs.”

John opened his mouth to say that so did he, but thought better of it. Mrs Hudson was never going to agree to that, anyway.

He chose to change topics instead. “Sherlock said you were one of the witnesses at our wedding.”

Her face lit up at the memory. “I was! It was so lovely of you boys to ask! It was all very sudden, of course – I had no idea anything had changed until you came down and asked me to come along, John. You looked so happy and excited.”

John blinked. That did not match up at all with what he had been expecting to hear. It was, however, yet more evidence that Sherlock had not coerced him in anyway.

With Mrs Hudson happy to talk about their wedding, perhaps he could get more information about that day, piece together what had happened without trying to get it out of Sherlock and risking another argument in the process if he lost his temper.

“What, uh, what did Sherlock look like?” he asked.

Mrs Hudson thought about that for a moment and then smiled. “Overwhelmed, I suppose.”

Again, not what he had been expecting. “Do you know-”

His phone rang.

Cursing inwardly, John pulled it out of his pocket. Mary's face lit up the screen but just then he found it hard to be pleased to hear from his fiancée. If only she had waited another five or ten minutes, he might have learned more.

“Mary,” he answered. “Hey, what's up? Is everything all right?”

“John, love, where are you?”

“Still at Baker Street,” he said. “Why?”

“We were going to go and taste wedding cakes, remember? We have an appointment in an hour and you know how long it takes to get halfway across the city.”

“Shite. I'm on my way,” he promised. “Text me the address and I'll meet you there.”

He hung up and stood. “I have to go, Mrs H. Thanks for the tea and the talk.”

She smiled and hugged him. “Come back soon, John. He's been so lonely without you.”

John didn't know what to say to that, so he merely nodded and left.

*****

"Has he signed them yet?" Mary asked some days later at breakfast. "It's been almost two weeks now."

"Not yet, no," John sighed. "I told you, we had sorted out an agreement."

"You said you'd accompany him on cases and he'd sign the bloody papers," Mary insisted, a pinched expression on her face. "You went last week, your part of the deal is done."

"It's not that simple," John said, wishing he could roll his eyes. He had explained this to her already, she was just being deliberately ignorant now. He couldn't even blame her. It couldn't be easy to want to marry someone only to find that they were married to someone else already, even if they hadn't known about it. Still, him and Sherlock being friends again had been her own suggestion, too.

"He'll sign them," John insisted instead of repeating the deal. "And who knows, this might be for the best. I was furious with him, still am a bit, but at least we're talking again. I'd like to have my best friend back. I'd like him to be best man at our wedding."

"Whenever that happens," Mary muttered, but she softened a little.

They finished their breakfast in peaceful silence and John kissed her goodbye and went to work. Afterwards, he would go see Sherlock again, just for the sake of it, and time crawled along as he kept glancing at the clock, waiting for his shift to end.

He and Sherlock hadn't made any plans but he was sure they would find something to occupy themselves, even if it was just another ridiculous conversation. They tended to have those all the time, a strange mix of bickering and general one-upmanship that kept them well entertained.

Still, they hadn't had any conversations that were actually important. They hadn't spoken about their marriage or their divorce, hadn't so much as alluded to the ring Sherlock now habitually wore on his left hand, and certainly hadn't strayed anywhere near the topic of his supposed death.

Instead, they had spoken about cases and Sherlock's experiments and John's patients and Mrs Hudson's furious spring cleaning that had resulted in the eradication of Sherlock's favourite weeds in the back yard.

Privately, John marvelled at himself. Two weeks ago, he wouldn't have even entertained the idea of setting foot in 221b and talking to Sherlock again. Now, he couldn't wait. It had been a couple of days since they had last seen each other and he felt them like an ache.

It had always been that way, if he wanted to be perfectly honest about it. Sherlock just had that effect on him, made him want to be near, drew him in like a moth to the flame even if it burned him. Sherlock may be the one who had said he wanted to rebuild their friendship, but John could be honest enough to admit that so did he. He simply hadn't been brave enough to get up and do something about it. And now the universe itself had neatly solved the problem for him by throwing an even bigger problem in his face.

Still, their deal had him worried. At some point, he would have to sit down and listen and he would learn what had happened and why Sherlock had gone and he still wasn't sure he wanted to know. Wasn't sure he wanted to hear what had been worth leaving him like this, which adventures Sherlock had had without him. Two years were a very long time to claim he had wanted to come home but hadn't.

It still hurt. It was a different sort of hurt to the blinding agony of losing Sherlock, of thinking him dead. This hurt in a different, twisting sort of way.  _'He deliberately left me behind.'_

Just like that, he found himself dreading his visit. What if Sherlock wanted to talk about it now? For a moment, John contemplated texting him to cancel, make up some excuse, any excuse, not to go.

He didn't.

Before he knew it, his shift had ended and he had taken the tube to Baker Street. He unlocked the door with his old spare key on autopilot and only blinked himself back into conscious thought as he stepped through the door of the flat.

"Sherlock?"

There was no reply. The sitting room and kitchen were empty and silent.

John almost turned around and left again but Sherlock's coat hung in its usual place, right next to his scarf. It was too cold out for him to leave without either.

Something cold ran down John's spine and made fear twist its ugly fist in his stomach.

"Sherlock?" he called again, louder this time, and listened for a reply.

He thought he might have heard something and stepped further into the flat. The sitting room didn't show any signs of recent activity but that didn't have to mean anything. Even a cup of tea might have been there for two hours or two days.

John turned down the hallway. The bathroom door was open and the light turned off. The door to Sherlock's room didn't seem to be closed properly, either. John lurched forward, caught between the need to see Sherlock right this second and the fear of what he might find if he opened the door.

The need won out, as it always did, and he strode down the hall and pushed the door open, trying to tell himself that Sherlock was fine.

"Sherlock, are you-?"

He broke off as he took in the scene.

Sherlock was there, and he was breathing, which made several of John's organs untwist in relief. Unfortunately, that was where the good news ended.

He was lying flat on his bed, spread-eagled, the covers pushed to the foot of the bed. His hair and clothes stuck to his body and his face was flushed and glistening with sweat. He hadn't reacted to John's entrance at all.

"Shit."

Two steps brought him to the bed and his hand to Sherlock's forehead. "Shit shit shit."

He pulled away, stepped into the bathroom and grabbed all the towels he could find, turned on the tap and let the cold water soak them through. He barely bothered to twist the excess water away, just enough to make sure Sherlock's expensive mattress wouldn't turn mouldy with it, and hurried back into the room.

Sherlock still hadn't moved.

He did make a small sound when John lifted his head and pushed the first of the cool towels to rest under his neck and the back of his head, folding one end over to lie across his forehead. The others went around his wrists and ankles.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, do you hear me?"

He got a low moan in reply, which wasn't exactly promising.

"Come on, talk to me."

Sherlock didn't.

John sighed and went back into the bathroom to root around for the thermometer. He rinsed it quickly, hoping it hadn't been used in any nasty experiments recently, and returned to take Sherlock's temperature. 42.1°C.

"Bloody buggering fuck," John said and pulled out his phone. "This is Doctor John Watson. I'm at 221b Baker Street, NW1 5RT, with a patient with acute pyrexia. He's running at over 42°C and unresponsive."

There was no medication in the flat, nothing that would help with a fever. He couldn't even remember if Sherlock had ever been sick in as long as he had known him. He didn't think so. Not even a bloody paracetamol could be found in this place and John cursed both Sherlock and himself for this neglect as he waited for the ambulance to arrive.

He had barely hung up before his phone rang again. He didn't recognise the number but he didn't need to.

"Hello Mycroft."

"Tell me what's happening." He probably had meant it to be an order but it sounded too worried to really be one.

John sighed. "I came to see Sherlock after work and found him unresponsive in his bed, running a high fever. There's absolutely nothing useful in his medicine cabinet, so I'm having him admitted to the nearest hospital."

Sherlock shivered in the bed, which John took as a good sign. "When did you last speak to him? Do you know when he last left the flat? I haven't seen him in a couple of days. It'll help if we are able to pinpoint how long he's been in this state."

"I'm checking now," Mycroft said and John heard the clicking noise of someone typing rapidly. "Mrs Hudson left to visit her sister three days ago. Sherlock accompanied her out and helped her into her car. He looked normal at the time. He returned indoors and hasn't been out since, except to open the door to accept a food delivery from his favourite Chinese restaurant at 8:30pm two days ago."

John nodded to himself. "What did he order?"

Mycroft didn't bother pretending he had no idea. "Spring rolls and some sort of soup."

"Containing chicken?"

"Yes."

"There you have it," John said. "He was starting to feel unwell around that time, then. Probably thought he had a cold coming on and decided to administer the infamous home recipe of chicken broth. It clearly didn't help."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he looked down at the semi-conscious figure in the bed. "You idiot, why didn't you call me when you realised you were getting worse?"

Sherlock, of course, made no reply.

The sound of sirens reached his ears. "Mycroft, the ambulance is here. I'm sure I won't need to tell you where they're taking him. Don't overdo it with the fretting, he will be fine. I've already taken measures to get the fever down, I just want a thorough check-up and some proper medication in him once we know what the issue is."

He hung up before Mycroft could respond and went to direct the medics upstairs.

Within five minutes, Sherlock had been loaded into the ambulance and they were trying to close the doors on John.

"I'm coming along," he said firmly.

"Sir, you can't-"

And John, feeling the irony in every bone in his body, said: "I'm his husband."

*****

"I see you have already discovered the advantages Sherlock no doubt pointed out to you in your recent conversations," Mycroft said.

They had both been sitting by Sherlock's bedside in silence for the past twenty minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. The fever had already gone down from 42.1 to 41.9, much to John's relief, but the doctor's had been adamant about putting Sherlock on a course of antibiotics and running some tests just to be sure. Perhaps that was due to the brief conversation Mycroft had had with them upon his arrival at the hospital.

Sherlock looked frightfully pale in the stark white hospital bed and John was grateful for an excuse to look away.

"Well, what else was I supposed to do? It's the truth."

"For now," Mycroft said calmly. He hadn't changed much since John had last seen him, at Sherlock's fake funeral. Some of the lines on his face were deeper and he may have acquired a grey hair or two, but that was about it.

"Did he wake at any point?"

John shook his head. "He tried to speak when I attempted to rouse him in the flat but he was too out of it. We'll have to wait for him to wake."

He took a breath and made himself ask. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was a secret mission, John. Telling you would have defeated the purpose of-"

"Not that," John snapped. "Our wedding. Why didn't you ever tell me that we were married?"

"Ah." Mycroft shifted in his chair. "I have to admit, I did not wish to have to break the news to you, John. I saw what my brother's death was doing to you. I did not wish to make it any worse."

"And after he came back..."

"It had slipped my mind," Mycroft said, which John found highly unlikely. "I simply did not think of it as relevant. He was alive, your marriage was legally valid, there seemed no reason to upset the status quo."

"Well, there is," John reminded him, crossing his arms. "Don't tell me you didn't know I was engaged."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "Considering your track record, I did not believe it would become an issue."

Before John could give voice to the many responses that readily sprang to mind, Mycroft continued. "And how is Miss Morstan?"

"She's fine," John said shortly.

"Indeed? Only I can't help but notice that we have been here for several hours, it is almost 10pm and you have not looked at your phone once, let alone sent a text or made a phone call."

"Shit!" John exclaimed, his anger instantly forgotten and replaced with guilt. "Excuse me for a minute."

He took his phone out into the hallway and found a quiet corner in one of the waiting areas, where he proceeded to ignore the sign that clearly stated that mobile phones were not allowed.

"Mary?"

"John! Finally, I was starting to think you had gotten lost."

"I'm sorry, I should have called sooner."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital and-"

"What? Are you all right?" The worry in her tone made him feel even guiltier.

"I'm fine. I had to take Sherlock to the hospital. When I arrived he was unconscious with a 40 degree fever. He's stable now but ... well, I wanted to keep an eye on him."

"Oh, John, luv. Of course you did. When are you coming home?"

John hesitated. "I don't know. I'll probably be here for a couple more hours in case they have more questions or he wakes up."

Mary was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, she sounded as if she was trying very hard to sound supportive but couldn't quite hide the bitterness underneath. "Of course. Well, you've got a key. Try not to wake me when you get home."

"Yeah," John muttered, wincing. "Good night."

She hung up without saying it back.


	7. Chapter 7

Shortly after John had returned from making his call and reclaimed his seat by Sherlock's bed, Mycroft rose.

"I'm afraid the work will not wait any longer. John, I'm sure I can trust you to keep an eye on my brother."

It sounded like _'You better not break this trust or I will have to engage people to break your legs'._

"Of course," John said. He had no intention of going home anytime soon when Mary was angry and hadn't had time to cool down yet. And, well, Sherlock might need him. "I'll call you if there's any change."

He knew it was a rather pointless offer, seeing as Mycroft could probably have the machine read-outs sent to his phone or something if he wanted to, but the man nodded anyway and left with one last glance at his brother.

Once the door had clicked shut, John sighed and settled more comfortably into his chair. Sherlock hadn't moved since they had brought him in but he knew the antibiotics were doing their job and everything else was just a matter of his body finally getting some rest. He looked impossibly frail in that bed and a bit thinner than he had been even at the very start of their friendship. John looked at the sharp line of Sherlock's collarbone and decided to take him out for dinner as soon as he was up for it. Clearly the idiot needed feeding.

He glanced around the room and caught sight of the bedside table, where someone had put a small zip-lock bag with Sherlock's meagre belongings. Having arrived in pyjamas, there weren't that many. Just his wristwatch and the gleaming wedding band. Silver, John thought and reached out for the bag before he could stop himself. He carefully extracted the ring and examined it.

_'Not silver'_ he thought, surprised. _'Titanium.'_

It made sense, of course. It looked pretty much the same but was much more durable, less likely to get scratched in the line of the Work.

It was a sensible choice, in as much as Sherlock made sensible choices. But why on earth would he get a ring in the first place? John had handed him the divorce papers and Sherlock's response had been to put on a ring. For what? Was this an attempt to spite him? To draw unnecessary attention to their situation? No, that seemed silly. Sherlock wouldn't tell everyone he had gotten married only to get divorced a couple of weeks later. That didn't make sense.

Thoughtfully, John turned the ring around and around in his hands but paused when he felt something uneven.

Squinting down at the ring and tilting it, he noticed there was an engraving on the inside. It was some sort of numerical code.

John frowned. "XXIX-I?"

They were most likely Roman numerals. If there had been more numbers, he would have assumed it was a date. He knew their wedding had been in early March and that clearly wasn't part of this engraving. But perhaps it was some sort of binary code? If so, John had no idea what it might mean.

Why would Sherlock have something engraved in his wedding band? It smacked of sentiment, which was not something he had ever bothered with.

So - a superfluous wedding band with a seemingly pointless engraving. It didn't look new, either. In very good nick, yes, but not as if it had only been bought and engraved in the past couple of days. Conclusion: Sherlock had had this ring for a while.

John swallowed. The entire time? Had he had it at their wedding? Had he himself put it on Sherlock's finger? It seemed unimaginable. He didn't think he had ever seen it before, but then of course that was the point of memory loss.

Glancing from the puzzling ring to Sherlock's sleeping face, for the first time John felt as if he truly had lost something.

He carefully returned the ring to its bag and then frowned at it. Perhaps it was an heirloom? That would explain the odd engraving. Either way, it didn't seem like a good idea to leave it lying around out here, where anyone might take it. He'd keep it on his person until Sherlock got out of here, keep it safe for him. Nodding to himself, John shoved the small bag into his pocket.

He fell asleep half an hour later and didn't wake until the nurse came in on her morning round, just in time for him to text Mycroft a status update, leave in a mad dash and make it to work on time.

*****

Only minutes after John had left, DI Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan walked through the doors of the hospital and managed to extract Sherlock's room number from the harried nurse, who took one look at their police badges and sent them on their way.

They arrived to find Sherlock alone in the room, asleep and too pale to be healthy.

"Been a while since I last saw him in such a bad shape," Lestrade commented softly. "He always seems invincible."

Donovan shrugged. "I always thought he wasn't susceptible to all the things that befall us mere mortals," she said. "But if he can get married, I suppose it's not impossible that he might get sick, too."

"Married," Lestrade grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring down at Sherlock. "And he didn't even invite us, the bloody wanker. Anyway, shouldn't he have a worried husband glued to his side?"

As if on cue, the door opened and they both turned, hopeful and curious. Their expectations were disappointed.

"Oh, it's a bit early for visiting hours," the nurse said, clearly startled to find someone in the room. She glanced at their badges. "Uh, officers. Is there a problem?"

"Wha-? Oh, no, just visiting a colleague," Lestrade said cheerfully. "You know what the shift work is like, can't always make the visiting hours. We were so worried when we heard he'd been admitted to the hospital."

She nodded. "Oh yes, his husband brought him in last night. Such a sweet dear, and so very worried. Sat by his side all night. Well, can't blame him. A 42 degree fever, anyone would have been worried."

"Looks like he's gone already," Lestrade noted, looking around the room.

The nurse nodded, prattling on happily as she changed Sherlock's saline bag. "Oh yes, he had to go to work, I think. You must have just missed him. Anyway, I've got things to do, so if you would please excuse us.... you can come back later."

And she shooed them out the door before they could form any protest.

"Well, he's still alive," Donovan offered. "Didn't look too bad, right? Not even in intensive care and all. Looks like he's even got someone to look after him."

Greg shuffled his feet. "Yeah. I guess so. I just ... don't you think it's odd?"

"What is?" Donovan asked, turning down the hall towards the lift.

"All of this," Lestrade said, gesturing behind them. "He fakes his death and comes back after two years, not a word of explanation, and then months later he just casually clues us in that he's married? And John, whom he hasn't even spoken to in months, shows up at the crime scene with him and says he knows about it?"

"Maybe it's him," Donovan suggested, smiling.

"Sally, please."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. All I'm saying is, if he and Sherlock haven't really been talking and before that Sherlock was god knows where, he either got married while he was away or before he ever left. Don't you think he should have mentioned it at some point? Or that John would have mentioned a husband intruding on their little flat share?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Must have been after his fake death, then," Sally said, shrugging. "You're just hurt because he didn't invite you to the wedding."

"So what if I am?" Lestrade asked, rather defensively. "Eight years I've known him, personally dragged him out of the gutter. Literally."

"Perhaps they didn't want to make a big fuss," she suggested, her voice softening. "I'm sure for once he didn't mean to give offense."

"Ha. Wouldn't even introduce the guy or give us a name or anything. Not even a bloody picture."

Sally sighed. "Are you going to bitch about this for the rest of the week?"

Lestrade considered this. "Probably, yeah."

*****

John returned to the hospital after work, just to see how Sherlock was doing, and was pleased to find him awake.

Sherlock looked surprised and equally pleased to see him. "John. What are you doing here?"

"Came to check on you," John said easily, reclaiming his chair. "Do you remember how you got here?"

He shook his head, brow furrowed, so John told him.

"I don't remember that at all," Sherlock murmured. "I don't recall it being Thursday. I know you said you'd come by on Thursday night. I must have lost track of time."

He looked put out by that and John shrugged, not feeling too charitable as he remembered his own memory loss. "Yes, well, a massive fever will do that to you. You were unresponsive when I found you and I couldn't find anything to get your fever down. Mycroft sat with you for hours."

Sherlock blinked. "Mycroft?"

"Yeah, he arrived at the hospital barely five minutes after we did. Stayed for almost three hours, hardly even looked at his phone the entire time."

Sherlock frowned and looked away, fidgeting with the edge of his blanket as he processed that information.

"I guess you're getting on better these days," John said softly, hoping he didn't sound too probing.

"I suppose," Sherlock allowed. "He was ... very consistent in his behaviour while I was-" he stopped himself and cleared his throat. "He came to get me out. In the end. He came to bring me home. Of course there was a case but I'd like to think that he couldn't-" He broke off again.

And oh, there were things he wasn't saying, John could tell. Suddenly, he wanted to know but even as he opened his mouth to ask, the door opened and an older doctor came in.

"Still awake, Mr Holmes! Very good! Now I'm just going to perform a quick check on you," she said cheerfully. "Do you think you can sit up? And perhaps your friend would like to wait outside?"

"This is my husband," Sherlock said. "And he's a doctor himself."

"Ah. Well, in that case, I hope you'll let me get on with it, sir. I know how we medical professionals can get when our loved ones are ill - my wife laughs at me every time for it - but I assure you, I'm perfectly qualified to do my job."

"It never crossed my mind to doubt it," John assured her. "I'm just going to sit here and pretend I'm not there. Sherlock, do be cooperative, please."

Sherlock made a face at him but struggled into a sitting position anyway and allowed the doctor to shine a light into his eyes and check his reflexes.

****

He sat with his back to John so he wouldn't have to see his face as he was being manhandled by the doctor. It had seemed like a good idea when he sat up but then she unwrapped the stethoscope from around her neck and suddenly it wasn't anymore.

"Just going to check on your heart and lungs. We wouldn't want an infection to sneak in," she said, still gratingly cheerful. Well, that was going to stop any moment now. "Could you take off your t-shirt for me? Or shove it up at least."

The hospital didn't bother with those flimsy gowns that seemed to be such a hospital staple in American TV shows and Sherlock was grateful for it, though it didn't make a difference this time. Reluctantly, he pulled his t-shirt over his head and heard the doctor draw a sharp breath through her teeth. All his muscles tensed.

She didn't say a word though, except for "This might be a bit cold" and proceeded with her task. And behind them, John didn't seem to be breathing and was quiet, quiet, quiet.

The doctor finished quickly, assuring them both that his lungs and heart were fine, and Sherlock gratefully put his t-shirt back on.

John didn't say a word.

This was not how Sherlock had wanted him to find out. The possibility of it hadn't even entered his mind. If it had, he could have asked John to go find a vending machine and bring him a snack or something. Too late for that now.

Well, he had never been one to shy away from an uncomfortable situation. Sherlock took a breath and rearranged himself until he was lying down again.

John sat in his chair and looked at him and the look on his face ... Sherlock lowered his gaze. "John..."

There was no reply and he glanced up again to see a myriad of expressions flickering across John's face.

John licked his lips and opened his mouth. "Wh-" He paused, cleared his throat, tried again. "What happened."

He couldn't even get enough inflection into his voice to make it a question.

Sherlock tried for levity but failed. He cold hear his own voice crack. "Turns out the S-Serbians don't like it when you infiltrate their criminal organisations."

Several seconds passed in a terrible silence. Then John jumped from his chair and started pacing next to the bed. "Sherlock..."

"What do you want me to say?" he asked softly. "I told you, John. Well, tried to. It was never for funs and giggles."

"You should have taken me with you," John said, half angry, half despairing. "I could have-"

"You couldn't have done anything," Sherlock interrupted him. "They would have killed you and made me watch and then they would have killed me for good measure. Do not think I didn't think about it. Do not think I didn't come up with seven ways to smuggle you out of the country and have you join me. I did, John. I wanted to. But I wanted you to be alive more."

They stared at each other, John at the foot of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock struggled upright again. "It was worth it," he said firmly, even though his voice was cracking around the edges of the words. "It was all worth it to keep you alive. I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

He held John's gaze, wishing he could shove his words right into John's brain and make him remember them forever, make him understand what he was really trying to say.

John shook his head. "Nothing is worth that," he said hoarsely, gesturing at Sherlock.

"Your life is," Sherlock told him. "Don't belittle yourself, John. Never that. It's just transport, remember? I can live with a couple of scars on my back. I could not live knowing you had died and I had a chance to prevent that and didn't take it."

John opened his mouth, probably to protest, and Sherlock pressed on. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn't have done the same if our roles had been reversed two years ago. If it had been my life on the line instead of yours."

"It was!" John snapped. "It _was_ your life. And you died. I thought you had _died_ , Sherlock. Two bloody years and then you come back and ..."

He broke off and buried his face in his hands. "God."

There were a couple of moments of silence and Sherlock closed his eyes, unable to see John like this. After a minute or two, he heard footsteps - John was returning to his chair. He would either sit back down or pick up his bag and jacket and leave.

Sherlock waited, hoping for the former and expecting the latter.

So when John took two quick steps to the bed, he barely had time to open his eyes before John had bent down and was hugging him for all he was worth.


	8. Chapter 8

John could feel Sherlock tense for one long, dreadful moment before he abruptly went limp in his arms, snatching in a surprised gasp as his hands flailed.

"John."

"Shut up," John muttered into his friend's hair and held him a little tighter.

God, he could have lost him. Sherlock could have died out there and John never would have known that he had always meant to come back, he never would have known that Sherlock hadn't wanted to go, that Sherlock had been protecting him. He never would have known that he had almost gotten him back.

Despite the rage he had felt at the perceived betrayal, he had never once managed to pretend that he wasn't glad to know Sherlock was alive. Thrilled, in fact. Positively overjoyed and absolutely unable to handle it in combination with the fury he felt about the entire thing. And all this time, this was what Sherlock had endured. John was allowed to hug him for that, blast it. So he did.

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock's arms came up around him to return the hug, his hands sneaking carefully across John's back as if unsure of their welcome. John found he couldn't blame him. Not after everything that had happened between them.

A moment passed, and another, and then Sherlock let loose a shuddering breath and his hold tightened around John until it was almost painful.

"John..."

"You're alive," John murmured. "You're alive, you're alive, you're alive."

"Yes," Sherlock gasped back against his neck. "Yes, yes, yes."

John didn't know how long they clung to each other, four months later than they should have done.

But in that moment, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because they were finally seeing eye to eye, finally understanding each other again. After two years and four endless months of separation, they were finally together again. Nothing else mattered.

Finally, John let go and stood upright, carefully stepping back from the bed. Sherlock's hands fell limply to the bed, as if all the energy had been sucked from them.

"I, uh, should probably get going," John said, suddenly feeling awkward. He had an odd sense that he shouldn't be hugging Sherlock, even if he was married to him. Or perhaps because of that. It wasn't supposed to feel good. "Haven't been home since yesterday. Mary will be worried."

He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment on Sherlock's face but it was gone too quickly. Sherlock sniffed. "Of course. Can't have that."

John bit his lip. "Rest up, will you? I'll come by to visit again tomorrow and they'll hopefully let you go home soon."

Sherlock nodded, glowering at the bed covers. "Fine. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

The curtness in his tone made John roll his eyes. "No need to take that tone with me. I'll see you tomorrow."

He grabbed his things and walked to the door. Just before he stepped out into the hallway, he thought he heard Sherlock say "Why bother?".

*****

Sherlock was allowed to return home the day after the next, once the doctors were convinced that his fever was not going to return. For his part, Sherlock was convinced they had kept him in longer than necessary because his brother was a terrible worry wart and had instilled the fear of Mycroft in them.

Anthea had made a quick appearance at some point and brought him a change of clothes. Sherlock put them on rather sluggishly, feeling more exhausted than he could remember being in quite some time. He shoved his pyjamas into the bag and looked around for any other items of his but couldn't find any. His phone, which Anthea had also brought, was already nestled safely in his jacket pocket. He couldn't see his watch anywhere, not even in the drawer of the hospital night stand, which meant he must have left it on his night stand at home.

He stared down at his empty ring finger, feeling a bit off-guard by seeing it bare. The ring must be on the night stand along with his watch. He would put it on once he got home and then he would feel right again.

It was noon when he managed to shuffle outside under his own stream. John had a shift at the clinic and so he was alone when he climbed into the car Mycroft had sent. He slumped into the seat as the driver closed the door behind him, put his seatbelt on and dozed through the entire drive back to Baker Street, where the driver had to shake his shoulder to rouse him.

"Thanks Rob," Sherlock muttered as the man carried his bag up the stairs for him.

"Don't mention it, sir. I've been told to inform you that Miss Anthea has restocked the fridge and you are not to take on any work for a couple of days."

Sherlock managed a vague hum in reply. Work was the last thing on his mind. "You can tell my brother he should consider a career as a full-time nanny," he muttered. "I hear he'd even get to keep his umbrella."

Rob managed a credible attempt at disguising his laugh as a cough. "I'll be sure to pass that on, sir. Good bye, sir."

"Bye," Sherlock said through a jaw-cracking yawn and stumbled towards his bedroom. Someone had changed the sheets in his absence, he noticed vaguely. When his head came to rest on his pillow, he was already asleep.

*****

Sherlock woke several hours later, disoriented but marginally more energetic than he had been. He sat up and reached for his watch, which had its designated spot on the night stand. His hand touched bare wood.

He frowned and turned his head to look. Nothing. An empty spot where his watch should be. Had he taken it off for an experiment in the kitchen or for a shower and left it in the bathroom? He couldn't recall. Its absence left him with a vague sense of unease.

Visiting the bathroom seemed like a good idea anyway, so he got up, went to the loo and then conducted a thorough search of the sink and shower area. No watch.

Now slightly worried, he made his way to the kitchen. The table was bare of anything and the work surfaces looked suspiciously clean. Clearly Anthea's version of "restocking the fridge" translated to "had someone come over to clean the entire kitchen". He glanced under the sink and found that she had even gotten rid of the promising fungus he had been cultivating there. Shame.

Still, there was no watch. He checked the sitting room just to be sure and finally had to confront the fact that his wristwatch was gone. It wasn't a big deal, really. The watch had been functional and not too big, a lovely design for the work.

The real problem, of course, was that if he had been wearing his watch when he had been taken to the hospital, he had also been wearing his ring.

He finally allowed the thought to come to its inevitable conclusion: his wedding band was gone.

Sherlock sat down heavily in his chair, stared at his empty ring finger.

“Well, John. I suppose you won't have to wrestle it off me after all,” he murmured and felt the misery swallow him whole.

*****

John arrived at Baker Street that evening after his shift. "Sherlock? Mycroft texted me to say they let you go. Are you-"

He walked in and found Sherlock curled up in his armchair, arms wrapped around his drawn-up legs and an expression of abject misery on his face. "Sherlock?"

His head whipped up. "Oh. John. Sorry, didn't hear you come in."

Even his voice sounded listless.

John frowned. "Is everything all right? You seem a bit..." He waved his hand helplessly, trying to encompass all of Sherlock.

"It's gone," Sherlock murmured. "Someone must have taken it off me at the hospital. And they didn't give it back or they lost it or someone took it and it's gone."

"What is?" John asked, confused.

"My watch," Sherlock said. "And my ring. They  _took_ it, John, and they didn't give it back."

His eyes were wide and his expression utterly devastated.

John swallowed. He hadn't realised Sherlock was so attached to these items. Well, at least he could help him out with regards to their whereabouts.

"Oh, is that all?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the zip-lock bag. "Here you go."

He handed it to Sherlock, who stared at the bag for a couple of seconds as if John had just performed an incomprehensible magic trick before snatching it from John's hand and upending the contents into his hand. He carefully put on his watch and then slid the ring back onto his finger, staring down at it with an unreadable expression. "How?"

"The bag was on the night stand at the hospital," John explained, sitting down in his own chair. "I thought that wasn't very safe - anyone could come in and take it and it is an expensive watch, even though it doesn't look like it at first glance. So I decided to hold on to it until you got home."

Sherlock glanced up at him and then looked back down at his left hand, idly twirling the ring around his finger. "Thank you."

John shrugged. "It's a nice ring. Would have been a shame for it to get lost. Where did you get it?"

"Hm? Oh, some jeweller," Sherlock said absently. "I needed something that wouldn't get damaged during the course of the work. Titanium seemed like the best option."

John nodded to himself. _'Some jeweller'_ he thought. Probably Garrard's - he doubted Sherlock would bother setting foot in any other establishment unless it was for a case, which meant that ring was probably worth more than half the contents in this flat put together. It made it even more puzzling why Sherlock had gone to the trouble of getting it in the first place.

He opened his mouth to ask about it but Sherlock snapped out of his contemplative mood and said: "Have you eaten?"

John shook his head. "Uh, no. No, I came here straight from work. Are you actually hungry?"

"That is usually why people ask this question," Sherlock said, shrugging. "I'm not in the mood to go out - I don't think I have the energy, honestly. But I was thinking we could order in?"

It sounded tempting, actually. A comfortable evening eating take-out in front of the telly with Sherlock? Those used to be John's favourite nights, before.

"Sure," he said. "What are you in the mood for?"

They settled on Angelo's and half an hour later John watched delightedly as Sherlock tucked into his food with gusto.

"I don't understand how hospitals manage to remove all the actual taste from their food and replace it with antiseptic," Sherlock said between bites. "That would put anyone off their food, seriously."

John laughed. "Tell me about it. But you haven't had army rations in a war zone yet, otherwise you'd know how delicious hospital food truly is."

Sherlock snorted. "I dare you to look me in the eye and tell me you didn't miss those rations while you were recovering from your gunshot wound."

He had a point there, John had to concede. Given the choice, he would have taken the rations over being stuck in hospital any day. He opened his mouth to say so, saw the knowing look in Sherlock's eyes and knew he didn't have to say a word.

They finished their meal in comfortable silence, only peppering in the odd comment about this and that, and let the TV drone on in the background, first with the news and weather report and then - after some channel surfing - with a true crime documentary that had them both rolling their eyes a lot and sent Sherlock into a 10-minute tirade about proper crime scene preservation by first responders.

It was a comfortable evening, all told, and John was sorry to see it end. But end it did eventually because he had to return home.

After he had cleared the take-out containers away and piled their plates in the sink for a quick rinse, he said his goodbyes and made for the door. Halfway to the threshold he stopped, unable to hold the question back any longer.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Why did we get married?"

Sherlock stilled, hand still outstretched for the remote control. He carefully lowered his arm and sat back, giving John a long look, as if searching for something in his face.

Finally, he seemed to find whatever it was. He shrugged, glancing away.

"Because you wanted to."

John stared at him and saw nothing but raw honesty in his face. He nodded once. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night."

John turned and left and didn't allow himself to think about Sherlock's answer until he was safely back at his and Mary's flat.


	9. Chapter 9

_'Why did we get married? - Because you wanted to.'_

A simple question. A simple answer.

They kept repeating in John's head, going round and round in merry circles like children on a fun-fair ride.

He stared up at the ceiling in his and Mary's dim bedroom and tried to make sense of these words. Next to him, Mary was fast asleep. She hadn't said a word about his late return or his announcement that he had already had dinner with Sherlock. She had barely said anything at all, come to think of it. He couldn't recall if they had even kissed goodnight. Probably not.

_'Because you wanted to.'_

How was that possible? Why would he ever want to ...? No, that was the wrong question to ask. The John Watson he had been two and a half years ago would have absolutely married Sherlock Holmes in a heartbeat. God, he really would have. It wasn't all that far-fetched, now that he thought about it.

They had just clicked, the two of them, slotting together like one of these cheap friendship necklaces you could buy everywhere. Sherlock had been brilliant and amazing and so much fun to be around, had given John a hundred reasons to live and a hundred more to enjoy doing so. He had made everything better just by existing and John had, even then, been afraid of what losing Sherlock might mean. Of course he would have married him, simply to have some sort of assurance that he would get to keep this wonderful madman in his life.

Of course, even a marriage certificate hadn't been enough to keep Sherlock with him in the end but that was another story.

The truly astonishing thing about this whole revelation was that Sherlock had simply gone along with it. John had wanted it and Sherlock had made it happen, had bound himself to him seemingly without hesitation. John could admit he had trouble believing that part. After all, he had nothing to offer in return. And yet ... well, Sherlock must have gotten something out of their friendship. He had been willing to die for this and been very adamant about it in the hospital. John would not cheapen his sacrifice by claiming it was unjustified.

God, his scars.

John had only caught a glimpse of them past the doctor and her stethoscope at the hospital but that glimpse had been enough. If Sherlock claimed that this pain had been worth it, then John would accept that.

_'Because I wanted to'_ he thought again. _'I wanted to and he just ... agreed. Of course he did. He's never been the conventional sort, has he? Easy access to each other in hospitals, medical decision-making ... there are tons of reasons to get married from a purely practical standpoint. Of course he'd do it.'_

And Mycroft, for some reason, had allowed it to happen.

John remembered his first meeting with the older Holmes brother. _'Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?'_ he had asked. Well, it had taken a bit longer than a week, in the end, but he had gotten it after all, hadn't he? Had Mycroft planned this all along? Hoped for it? A minder for Sherlock, someone legally obliged to stand by him?

And where did that leave them now, with John petitioning for a divorce? It wasn't as if he wanted to get away from Sherlock - not anymore. But, well, he couldn't marry Mary if he was already married to someone else. The government frowned on polygamy.

He turned his head and looked at his fiancée, asleep next to him with her back turned in his direction. Well, he rather deserved that. It must be hard for her. One moment she had been about to file for a marriage license and the next her entire life had been turned on its head by John's heretofore unknown marriage. Perhaps he should try to make it up to her in some way. Take her out to dinner, forget all about this silly business for a bit.

John nodded to himself. Yes, he could do that. A relationship needed some work, he couldn't just expect it to fall into place and stay that way after such a massive shake-up. He would take Mary out to dinner and not think about any of it and focus on the two of them instead. Perhaps he could draw her into planning their honeymoon, something they hadn't given much thought to yet.

Satisfied with himself for the moment, John finally closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.

*****

Holding fast to the decision he had come to last night, John made reservations at his and Mary's favourite restaurant for the evening and took her out shopping to find a lovely new dress to wear for the occasion.

"What's all this about then?" she asked as they browsed through Mark and Spencer's.

John shrugged and smiled at her. "I realised I've been a bit preoccupied with all the stuff happening recently. Rebuilding my friendship with Sherlock, trying to get him to sign the divorce papers, looking after him when he got sick ... we haven't had a day to the two of us for a while and I thought you deserved a bit of spoiling. Consider it an apology for how crazy our life has become all of a sudden."

She returned the smile tentatively. "I won't claim it has been easy, John. To hear you were married ... well, that would throw anyone for a loop, I suppose. It helped a bit to know that you didn't know about it, either, and that it was all quite unintentional. It's a bit like those romcoms where people wake up married in Vegas."

John laughed. "Yeah, it is a bit, isn't it? But I'm quite happy with the fiancée I've got, thank you very much."

Her smile widened a little. "All right, then. So long as we both know that."

She linked her arm through his and pulled him along. "Come on, let's check the formal wear section. I can't believe you managed to get a table at our favourite restaurant on such short notice."

"Just got lucky," John said happily. "I didn't expect it, either, but apparently they had just had a cancellation. I find it's best not to look a gift horse in the mouth on these occasions."

It was a philosophy he had adopted in order to deal with the constant paranoia about a certain someone holding a minor position in the government meddling with his personal affairs. At least this time John was reasonably certain that Mycroft had had absolutely nothing to do with the cancellation at all.

Mary was in high spirits all day and clearly pleased with his attention. He watched her try on dresses for two hours and finally paid for the one she selected, a lovely light blue one that complimented her eyes. The left the shop arm in arm, returned home for a bit of a rest and to get changed, and made off to the restaurant.

They spent a perfectly lovely evening there, talking easily and happily about this and that, tentatively discussing potential honeymoon destinations, and lingering over dessert.

All in all, John was quite certain that it was the happiest day he and Mary had ever spent together.

*****

Sherlock didn't see either hide nor hair from John in an entire week. He tried not to let it get to him. They were adults and John had a life of his own - a job, a flat, a fiancée... of course he was too busy to bother visiting Sherlock all the time. Still, Sherlock couldn't help but worry. It had felt as if they had been making progress.

That hug in the hospital had stayed with him, as if his body could not let go of the memory of John's warmth and his strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close.

Their conversation afterwards and John handing his ring back to him had seemed like yet another sign that things were improving. He knew, or at least suspected, John wasn't happy about the ring's existence on Sherlock's finger. But when he had had the chance to make it disappear, he had given it back to him instead. Surely that had to mean something, right?

And when John had finally asked the question Sherlock had been waiting for, he had answered honestly. But the follow-up questions he had hoped for had never come and instead John had walked away from him once again. He hadn't seen him since.

He wanted to spend time with him, wanted to see John walk through the door with a smile on his face and that light in his eyes that had always been there before.

But John didn't come.

The only thing Sherlock was left to conclude was that John wasn't happy with his answer. Either he didn't believe it or he did and wasn't sure how to cope with it. Did that mean he would return at some point with the divorce papers in hand and leave Sherlock no choice but to sign them?

The thought made him vaguely nauseous.

He was reasonably certain he wouldn't lose John, at least not all at once, but he would see significantly less of him. And of course he would lose him in some respect. Any chance he might still have rested solely on keeping John out of Mary's clutches.

It wasn't a kind thought and Sherlock supposed he should feel bad about it but he couldn't bring himself to. He was selfish, deep down, and while he wanted John to be happy, he would rather have him be happy with him than with Mary.

After all, what could Mary do to bring John joy? Besides warming his bed, there did not seem much appeal to her that Sherlock could deduce. To the best of Sherlock's judgement, she was a boring, standard human woman whose idea of an adventure was catching a train out of London on the weekend to explore the countryside. Crime played no part in her life, neither the solving nor committing of it, and Sherlock doubted that even little thrills like bungee jumping or parachuting would be something she would willingly engage in. How did John ever get any entertainment if this was what he faced at home?

Had he changed so much in the time Sherlock had been gone? No, that could not be right. Someone like John needed adventure and excitement and it was plain to see every time he accompanied Sherlock on cases these days. John came alive when they hunted criminals down dark alleys and across London's rooftops.

So why would he return to Mary over and over again and insist on leaving Sherlock behind?

It didn't make any sense. None of it made any sense and Sherlock was too afraid to ask, too afraid of what the answer might be.

Too afraid to show his hand and be rejected for good.

For now at least he had John's company, but if John ever realised how much it meant to him, how much Sherlock needed him, all that they had rebuilt so painstakingly might be torn from him in one fell swoop. He could not risk it.

And so Sherlock resigned himself to waiting, biding his time in the hopes that something might change and make this whole mess make sense.

It wasn't easy.

He forgot to eat again and he knew Mrs Hudson worried. She took to leaving soups and stews and sandwiches in the flat and tutted when she returned to find them untouched.

He didn't sleep well, either, too lost in his mind and the constant whirl of doubt and hope going round and round in his head.

And still John didn't text, or call, or visit.

Sherlock was too afraid to reach out, fearing that John would tell him 'No'. There was only so much he could bear.

He badgered Lestrade for cases instead and tried to lose himself in the work, solving all those little problems that the DI presented to him. They did not do much to keep him occupied but at least they provided enough of a diversion to keep the thought of cocaine far from his mind. That was the best he could hope for for the time being. It was also the best everyone else could hope for.

His only blessing so far was that Mycroft had not tried to interfere - or if he had, it had been done so subtly that Sherlock had taken no notice of it, which came down to the same thing.


	10. Chapter 10

Two days later, Lestrade had had enough.

"You look like hell warmed over," he told his one and only consulting detective as they watched Donovan carefully guide their latest catch into the back of a police car. "When did you last get some sleep?"

"Don't know. I might have slept for an hour or so yesterday?"

"Wrong answer," the DI said. "And what about food? Have you eaten? You could cut someone with those bloody cheekbones of yours."

"Only if they slap me," Sherlock said. "In which case they are a perfectly functional defense mechanism."

"Wrong answer again. Come on, I'm treating you to dinner."

He grabbed Sherlock by the arm, waved to Donovan and managed to convey with some short gestures that he would be taking their resident genius to the next pub. She gave a thumbs up and waved back.

"You can't just leave," Sherlock tried to protest, even as he allowed himself to be pulled along. "There's paperwork."

"It will still be there tomorrow," Lestrade said. "I've been working overtime, it's way past the end of my shift. And you don't give a damn about paperwork anyway. Now shut up and let someone take care of you for once, for heaven's sake."

Sherlock didn't say another word until they had reached the pub and found a quiet corner in the back, away from the handful of patrons. There was music playing but with so few people to hear it, it was blessedly quiet and they could talk quietly, without having to strain to hear each other.

Greg got himself a pint and Sherlock a cider because he may not be a genius but he did pay attention to people. He sat down and shoved the menu in Sherlock's face. "Here, choose something. You're only allowed a starter or dessert if you also get a main."

Sherlock tried to glare at him but was clearly too done in and ended up looking more like a bedraggled kitten than anything actually threatening. Lord knew he could be scary if he wanted to, downright terrifying even. These days, he only threatened to faint on the spot.

He did order a massive jacket potato with beans in the end, which Lestrade counted as a win.

"Good," he said as soon as Sherlock returned from the bar and handed him his card back. "Now tell me what's going on."

"Nothing is going on," Sherlock lied.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him. "Really? Then why do you look like death warmed over? You don't sleep, I have to resort to force-feeding you and you frankly look like someone just ran over your dog."

"I don't have a do-"

"Christ, it's just a saying," Lestrade interrupted. "Listen, I may not be brilliant like you are, but I can tell when something is wrong. You haven't been all right ever since you came back from wherever the hell you've been these two years, but it's getting worse now. I had hoped that elusive husband of yours might make things better but I'm starting to think he's the problem here."

He noticed how Sherlock tensed at the word 'husband' and his stomach rolled.

He softened his voice. "Sherlock ... he's ... he's treating you right, yeah? You, uh, you know if he ever does anything to hurt you, you can just walk away, right? You've got friends. If he is in any way-" he hesitated, not wanting to say 'abusive'. People tended to shy away from the word, to clam up because this sort of thing only ever happened to other people.

Sherlock blinked at him and frowned. "You... think my husband is abusive," he said slowly.

_'Should have known he'd not pussyfoot around it'_ Lestrade thought. "Well, yes. What else do you expect me to think? A mysterious husband none of us have ever seen, you won't tell us his name, you won't show us a picture, you won't tell us anything beyond saying he exists and now here you are, looking like someone who really doesn't have a caring husband looking out for them. In my line of work, of course I'll assume your husband is the problem."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, he's ... he'd never." He paused, released a shuddering breath. "He would never."

Privately, Lestrade thought this was a lie, but probably one Sherlock was also telling himself. No one wanted to believe their partner capable of violence and yet it happened all too often. Lord knew he had seen his fair share of the results.

Before he could question Sherlock further, the food arrived. "Dig in," Lestrade said. "The rest can wait a bit but you look like you're about to faint."

For once, Sherlock did as he was told. It didn't take long for him to polish off most of his plate and Lestrade watched with a curious mix of satisfaction and growing concern. Sherlock was a picky eater, he knew that from years of observation. He didn't usually dig in unless he reached a point where his body overruled that big brain of his.

Finally, he had scraped up the last of the beans and even mopped up the rest of the sauce with a piece of bread and looked a bit less dead than he had twenty minutes ago.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" Lestrade asked, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt. "Now tell me - if I'm wrong and you're so bloody happy in your marriage, what's going on?"

"Not happy," Sherlock said quietly, staring at his plate.

Lestrade blinked. "What? You just said..."

"I said he wasn't abusive. Didn't say I was happy," Sherlock said, which didn't help matters much.

"Then what...?"

But Sherlock shook his head and remained silent, staring at the table with the look of someone who was struggling to put words to something he had no experience with whatsoever. Lestrade chose to leave him be.

A bartender came and took the plate away and still they sat in silence. He took a sip of his beer. Sherlock would talk when he was ready.

Lestrade was more than halfway through his pint and just contemplating whether he should order another one or leave it at one drink for tonight when Sherlock spoke.

"I'm losing him."

"Sorry?"

"I'm losing him," Sherlock repeated. "I can feel him slipping through my fingers, growing ever more distant, and there is nothing I can do to hold him."

Lestrade blinked, taking in Sherlock's expression. He looked ... lost. Lost and sad, which was the most vulnerable Lestrade had ever seen him. Even high as a kite or suffering through withdrawal he had still remained fiercely stubborn and contrary. There was nothing of that left in him now.

"Sherlock, that's ... I don't know what to say."

"Nothing you can say," Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing you can do, either. You don't have the best track record with marriages yourself."

It wasn't said bitingly and he was correct, so Lestrade chose not to comment. "Got a bit of experience in trying to work things out, too," he said instead.

"Mph."

They were quiet again for a bit but this was the most he had ever heard Sherlock say about that elusive husband of his - or anything else concerning his private life - and he was curious.

"So what makes you think he's getting distant? Maybe he's planning a surprise, trying to keep it from you? God knows he'd have his hands full with hiding anything from you."

Sherlock shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning even further down. He looked like a kicked puppy and it hurt Lestrade somewhere deep in his soul. Lord knew Sherlock Holmes was not an easy man to know but he sure as hell didn't deserve to be made to feel like this, on the rare occasion that he lowered himself to feeling anything in the first place.

"He's been pushing for a divorce."

"Oh." Greg leaned back. That was rather unexpected. "Did he say why? Have you done anything? Left entails in the bathtub or whatever?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He never much minded that. No he ... he wants to marry someone else." He turned his head to the wall, blinking rapidly. Lestrade felt a sudden, intense need to find that husband of his and shake some sense into him.

"I'm sorry, mate," he said. "That's harsh."

Sherlock sighed. "The thing is ... I don't think he _really_ wants to. He says he does but I think he just wants to do it because he believes he should, not because he really wishes to. So I've been pushing back."

"Pushing back?" Lestrade echoed. "How do you... push back against that?"

"I've refused to sign the papers." To his credit, he looked guilty about it. "I was hoping if he had to come around more, he would realise he already had everything he could possibly want."

"Wish it worked like that," Greg muttered. "You'll have to let him go eventually, Sherlock. It's clearly not working out. Do you really want to be with someone who wants to be elsewhere? That's not fair on any of you. And anyway, I thought he loved you? Sure sounded like it when I spoke to your nurse."

Sherlock blinked at him. "What nurse?"

"At the hospital, when you gave us all a good scare the other week. She said your husband had hardly left your side, stayed up all night by the bed to keep you company. She said he was worried sick."

An indescribable emotion flickered across Sherlock's face at that, something like hope that was quickly squashed down. His shoulders slumped and he visibly pulled himself together after another moment. "It doesn't change anything. He doesn't _hate_ me, Lestrade. He just ... doesn't want to be married to me."

"Makes me wonder why he married you in the first place," Lestrade said. "I mean, don't get me wrong, but you're not really many people's first choice, right? So he must have seen something in you to make him want to take that step, yeah? And clearly you felt the same way, if you agreed to it. Can't really see you proposing to anyone, quite frankly."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Me neither. It was all his idea, actually. He suggested it, quite out of the blue one day."

"But you wanted it," Lestrade probed gently.

Sherlock finally met his gaze with stark honesty. "More than anything."

And no matter how hard Lestrade tried, he didn't get another word out of him on the topic.

*****

It had been strangely liberating to talk to Lestrade, if only because Sherlock had needed a sympathetic ear. The DI was many things and a good listener was surprisingly high up on the list. It hadn't helped in any objectively measurable manner and it certainly hadn't changed anything about his situation, but Sherlock still felt a bit lighter. Perhaps there was something to this sharing lark after all.

He had managed to actually sleep through the night afterwards, though that could also have been due to the pleasant drowsiness induced by his first full meal that week.

For the first time since John's visit, Sherlock felt he could take on the world again. Looking back, he could admit he had let himself go a bit since John had last left. But who could blame him?

John had finally asked about the why and, when Sherlock had answered, he had simply walked away, not giving any indication if he was coming back or what he thought of Sherlock's response. When would he finally ask what had happened? Had Sherlock's answer been enough to make him understand? Was this why John hadn't contacted him again since then?

Sherlock twisted his ring around his finger, wondering how much longer he had left before John asked him to finally sign the papers and take it off for good. Well, if John wanted him to take this ring off, he would have to pull it off his finger himself and Sherlock would fight him to the end.

He shuddered and tried to dispel the thought. John would never do that to him. They were friends.

As if on cue, he heard the front door open, followed by John's unmistakeable steps on the stairs.

Sherlock sat up straight and tried to pretend he wasn't worried. But then John barged into the room, a little out of breath and smiling and Sherlock relaxed.

"Hey," John said happily. "Hoped you'd be in. Listen, Mary's gone off to meet some of her friends for the weekend and I saw this advert on the tube. The Science Museum has a new exhibition going on that I thought we could check out. Want to come?"

Sherlock blinked. This wasn't what he had expected and it took him a moment to mentally shift gears. "I- yes, of course, John."

John beamed at him. "Great.”

He paused, scratching the back of his neck and looking rather contrite. “Sorry I haven't been in touch this week. I'll try to text more - it's just been really busy at the clinic."

He looked harried and now that Sherlock took the time to really look at him, he could see the signs of stress and long shifts at the clinic. John was telling the truth.

Sherlock relaxed a bit more and smiled back at him. "It's all right, John. You don't owe me any explanations."

He even managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice and stood before he could let something slip. "Let me get dressed and we can go."

He disappeared into his bedroom and got changed as quickly as possible, feeling no small amount of excitement at the idea of finally getting to spend some time alone with John. Well, out in public, but still. It could almost be considered a date.

Shaking his head, Sherlock squashed the thought. No. He would not go down that road. John had barely started talking to him again and he showed no signs of turning back from the road he was hurtling down, the one that led farther and farther away from Sherlock himself.

He knew he would have to tread carefully today. He couldn't stand too close or say the wrong thing or even give the wrong (or rather: the right) impression. If anyone were to comment and mistake them for a couple, he knew John would vehemently deny the assumption and then retreat so far into his shell it would take weeks to get him out again. And Sherlock knew he didn't have weeks.

There had been no deadline given by either of them, perhaps consciously so. Neither wanted to put any more pressure on their friendship. The strain was already too much for them to bear easily. The last thing either of them wanted was to put them on a timeline. _'By Tuesday next week we need to be friends again. Two weeks after that, we should be able to call each other our best friend again without having to lie. And then Sherlock will sign the divorce papers.'_

Sherlock shuddered. Even this ridiculous imaginary timeline did not contain any point labelled _'this is where Sherlock refuses to sign again and John loses his patience and finally demands to know the real reason why'_.

The very thought made him a bit ill and he fled to the bathroom to buy himself another handful of minutes so he could pull himself together before he had to face John again.

When he finally returned to the sitting room, John was just examining Billy on the mantle with what Sherlock thought was a slightly wistful expression on his face. He turned away when he heard Sherlock enter though and smiled at him, which promptly chased all of Sherlock's lingering anxiety away.

He found himself returning the smile tentatively. "Ready?"

"Ready," John said and they turned towards the stairs together.

It felt like old times, rushing downstairs together to hail a cab and slide into the back seat, delighted with each other's company. The cab ride to the museum went by far too quickly and soon they had gotten out and joined the queue of people eager to get into the exhibition.

"Teeming with tourists, of course," John sighed. "But I figured we'd have an easier time getting in during the week than on the weekend when we've also got half of London and some people from the country here who want to get their kids educated."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, shrugging. "The queue is moving quickly, at this pace we'll be inside in less than ten minutes."

They made it in seven, much to his pleased surprise.

"No need to buy a ticket," Sherlock said casually. "I've got a membership. And it allows me to take a guest along to exhibitions."

John looked surprised. "Really?"

"Of course, it's a standard clause in most memberships these days that-"

But John was shaking his head. "No, I meant ... you have a membership?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course, John. It's the Natural History and Science Museum. Of course I have a membership. I used to spend hours in here."

"You never said."

He shrugged. "It never came up. But yes, I've had a membership for about a decade. I think my parents gifted it to me once and I kept renewing it after that. We should support the last few bastions of accessible knowledge wherever we can. Lord knows the media and the internet are doing their best to lower people's IQs, the least we can do is make sure museums and libraries stay open so people can educate themselves at least a little."

John laughed and they spent a good half hour telling each other about the museums they used to visit as children. Sherlock had John in stitches with a story of how he had gotten himself locked up in the British Library on purpose and then complained upon being found in the morning that he wasn't done with his book yet.

"Mother was mortified, of course, but also quite proud, considering my choice of reading material. It was a treatise on early mathematics."

"Of course it was," John said, grinning.

They rambled through the exhibition, stopping at anything that looked interesting and drawing each other's attention to ridiculous scientific names. Once they left the exhibition and entered the main museum, Sherlock, deciding that a little bit of joking should be allowed, dragged John to the minerals section.

"If you want to have proper fun with scientific names," he said, "you check out insects and rocks."

He pulled John along until he found the one item he had been looking for and turned him towards the showcase. "I dare you to beat that one."

It took John a moment to identify which of the rocks on display Sherlock meant and then he began to laugh.

"Cummingtonite?" he gasped. "Really?"

Sherlock grinned. "Thought you'd appreciate that one."

John was giggling, that high-pitched giggle that only made an appearance when they had done something extremely ridiculous. Sherlock's heart leapt. It was the first time in years and years that he had heard that sound and it left him light-headed.

_'Slowly'_ he reminded himself and committed the sight and sound of John to memory even as he joined in his laughter.

"Come on," John finally said. "I want to check out the bugs now because I'm absolutely certain I won't be able to find a funnier rock."

Sherlock smirked, accepting his momentary victory in the naming game. "Lead the way."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your continued support! For those of you who asked: Yes, Cummingtonite is an actual thing. Never underestimate a scientist with the power to name things.

John had to admit that going to the museum with Sherlock had been a bit of a spontaneous idea, but one that had paid off. His friend's face had lit up at the suggestion and had stayed that way for their entire outing. He hadn't seen Sherlock look that happy and carefree since ... well, since before he had died.

They had searched insects for equally amusing names and found several, but nothing could compete with the supreme hilarity of Sherlock Holmes showing him a rock called 'Cummingtonite'. It wasn't Sherlock's usual sort of humour at all, which made it all the funnier in John's eyes.

And all the while, Sherlock had laughed and talked and smiled more than John had ever seen him. It had reminded him of their first case together and of his blog post about his first impression of Sherlock. _'He was charming.'_

He still was, lit from within by his joy in their outing, providing additional facts on most of the exhibits and laughing so hard he had to sit down when John told him about a school trip to the museum that had ended with him accidentally setting off the fire alarm and causing the entire building to be evacuated.

Just watching him like this made John happy by default and he couldn't remember the last time he had spent such an enjoyable day.

They went out for dinner after the museum, to a small Vietnamese restaurant they had discovered during one of their cases and not been to in a while. The food was as delicious as John remembered and he was pleased to see Sherlock actually eat with every sign of enjoyment.

Before he knew it, the sun had set and it was getting late. They wandered back to Baker Street and stopped outside the front door, neither quite willing to have the day end yet. John felt ridiculously like a teenager on a date with his first crush.

Sherlock bit his lip and the action made him look like he was no older than fifteen. "Do you want to come up? Have a cuppa, watch some crap telly?"

John hesitated. God, he wanted to. He really did. He loved watching crap telly with Sherlock. But it was almost 9pm already.

"I can't," he said regretfully. "It's getting late and I need to get home. I've got work tomorrow." And then he remembered his fiancée. "And Mary will be worried, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock said, his tone a bit colder. Suddenly, the companionable atmosphere between them seemed to have thinned to something awkward and uncomfortable.

"Well, you had better get going then," Sherlock said, turning towards the door. "Text when you get home?"

"Yes, of course," John mumbled, thrown off-guard by Sherlock's abrupt change in mood. "Hey, I had a great time today, all right? And I hope we can do this again, soon."

Sherlock visibly softened. "Anytime you like, John. Just say the word. Good night."

"Good night," John murmured and watched as Sherlock disappeared inside. Sighing, he turned and began walking towards the tube.

He couldn't help but stop again, though, and turn towards that familiar house once more. Deep down, he didn't want to leave. This was home, had always been home, and his every instinct cried out against walking away from it.

The windows upstairs were still dark - had Sherlock not bothered to switch on a light? Perhaps John should head back, check if he was all right, make sure the mad bastard didn't fall down the stairs in the dark.

_'Don't be silly, Watson.'_ He shook his head at himself and resolutely turned his steps back towards Baker Street Station. Sherlock would be fine.

Once he was on the tube and headed for home, John allowed himself to relax and review the day. It had gone quite well, all things told. They had had a ton of fun and a good meal and up until just now at the door, everything had been perfect.  _'At least until we remembered that I no longer live here,'_ John thought and then immediately felt guilty for it.

_'Mary'_ he reminded himself sternly. _'I'm going home to Mary, where I belong.'_

But the ache deep in his chest didn't lessen one bit.

*****

Sherlock shut the front door behind himself and sagged against it. He raised a trembling hand to his face and wasn't surprised at all when it came away slightly damp. One shuddering breath and another, and another.

_'Breathe'_ he reminded himself. _'Breathe.'_

But he couldn't. His chest was too tight and all the air seemed to have been sucked out of the hallway and there wasn't enough oxygen and before he knew it the world was spinning around him, black spots dancing in his vision, and his legs refused to carry his weight.

He knew the signs by now and so he simply let himself slide down to the floor and put his head between his knees, hoping the panic attack would pass.

He allowed himself to just shake through it, tried to remove his conscious mind from what was happening and focused only on his breathing, on trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

It took a full ten minutes until he felt he could raise his head again and another seven before he managed to pull himself upright with the aid of the door knob.

Of course that was when he noticed Mrs Hudson standing in the door to her flat.

"Oh, you poor dear," she said. "Another one?"

He shrugged. "It seems that way, Mrs Hudson."

"What triggered you this time? Oh, no, don't answer that. Forget I even asked. Silly."

She stepped forward and cupped his face in her hands. "Oh, my dear boy. Come on, I'll make you a cuppa. Don't you dare argue."

Sherlock didn't have the energy or the will to do any such thing, so he merely followed his landlady into her flat and allowed her to steer him to a chair at the kitchen table.

A gentle shove was all it took to make him sit down heavily and he propped his elbows on the table and hid his face in his hands, listening to the soothing sounds of Mrs Hudson making a decent cuppa while he waited for his body to stop trembling.

It wasn't the first time Mrs Hudson had caught him in the midst of a panic attack and she had only needed to be warned once that touching him while he was in the midst of one was not a good idea. His reflexes, honed by two years on the run from various criminal organisations, were not suited for casual touch while his mind was shutting down. He still felt guilty every time he thought about how bruised her wrist had looked from where he had grabbed hold of her arm.

The soft clatter of porcelain on wood drew him from his thoughts as Mrs Hudson placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him. "There you go, my dear. Two sugars, just as you like it."

He managed to raise his head and give her a weak smile. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I really don't know what I'd do without you sometimes."

She smiled and patted his hand. "Pish-tosh. You just drink your tea now and calm down a little. And then you can tell me what happened. Don't think I didn't notice John coming by earlier and the two of you getting into a cab."

Sherlock smiled again. "I would never think any such thing. If you hadn't seen it for yourself, I'm sure Mrs Turner would have told you all about it. Has she gotten a new pillow for her windowsill yet? Her arms must be hurting without it."

"It's for her cat, how often must I tell you?" Mrs Hudson protested half-heartedly.

Sherlock gave her a look. "Oh please. I have never once seen her cat sit on that pillow in all the time she's had it there. It's just there so she can rest her arms on it while watching what happens on the street. And besides, her cat died two months ago."

Mrs Hudson had no argument for that. Instead, she merely pushed a plate of cookies towards him and drank a sip of her tea. Her eyes were kind and patient as she looked at him and Sherlock relaxed under her steady gaze.

Finally, when his cup was half empty, he managed to tell her all about his and John's trip to the museum and dinner.

"Oh, how lovely!" She clapped her hands in delight. "I'm so glad you are getting along again. It was dreadful not having him here and seeing you so down."

Sherlock stared into his cup, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Yes. He's been coming by more often and we're texting, so I suppose that's something. I just ... it's not enough, Mrs Hudson. We were standing right outside this door and I asked if he wanted to come up for a tea and some crap telly - don't give me that look, I didn't mean it as a euphemism - and I could tell he wanted to. And all the said was that he'd love to but that he had to go home to _Mary_."

His voice broke on her name and he hated it.

Mrs Hudson sighed and grasped his hand. "Oh, Sherlock. Have you still not told him?"

He laughed and was horrified to realise it sounded a bit wet. "And say what exactly? He doesn't want to hear any of it. He even asked me about our wedding the other day. Wanted to know why we got married and when I told him it was because he had wanted to, he just nodded and walked away and he hasn't mentioned it since. It's like he's deliberately avoiding the issue and I can't tell if it's because he knows and doesn't want me to say it out loud, or because he doesn't know and is afraid of finding out anything that would throw his neatly arranged idea of who we are into disarray."

Mrs Hudson squeezed his hand. "Well, he has always been incredibly stubborn, has our John. But I think you should tell him anyway."

"And then what?" Sherlock demanded. "At worst he'll walk away all over again and I won't even have this wreck of a friendship left. At best he'll try to let me down gently and superfluously and seeing him will be absolutely unbearable. I will have to sign the bloody papers and probably even attend his wedding because if I didn't, everyone would ask why his supposed best friend couldn't make it. Not that they'd have to wonder, because the number of people in this city who could possibly be left in any doubt whatsoever comes down to exactly one. And that's John himself."

He took a shuddering breath. "I can't do it, Mrs Hudson. I can't tell him. All I can do is drag out whatever time I have until he finally loses his patience and forces me to sign the papers. And then he'll turn straight around an-and marry her like it didn't mean anything at all - because it doesn't, to him. And he'll expect me to be there and I will be. I will be there, at his wedding, because I can't possibly tell him that I'd rather throw myself off of St. Bart's for real this time without also telling him why."

He hung his head and squeezed his eyes closed. God, it hurt. Just the thought of it hurt and he couldn't even decide which of all these scenarios was the worst one.

Mrs Hudson stood, moved around the table and hugged him tight. "Oh, Sherlock. My poor, dear boy. You don't deserve to get your heart broken like that."

Sherlock tried to take a breath but it turned into a strangled sob halfway through and he shuddered in her arms, wrapping his own around her waist and pressing his face to her stomach in a useless attempt to hide his tears. He was so done with pretending it didn't hurt.

"He'll never come back," he whispered once he managed to get his voice back. "He's gone already and I can't bring him home no matter what I do."

"Shhh," Mrs Hudson murmured, rocking him as if he were a little boy. "I know it hurts, my dear. But I promise you, you will get through this. And he will come to his senses. He may be as stubborn as a rock but he's not a complete idiot. You could never love a moron."

Sherlock chuckled and sniffed. "I'm starting to doubt that, actually."

Still, he felt better - just talking about it and finding some emotional release in his tears and having Mrs Hudson's comfort helped.

"You'll see," Mrs Hudson said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, "our John will come home. He knows where he belongs, even if he won't acknowledge it yet, even to himself. He'll get there in the end. And once he's home, you'll have all the time in the world."


	12. Chapter 12

Mrs Hudson was right, at least in part. Things _did_ get better.

Sherlock and John spent time together almost every day for the following week, with no small thanks due to a new case Lestrade brought to them the very next morning that kept them occupied for a full four days before they caught the killer. There was the good old legwork, interviewing of suspects, talking to potential witnesses, no less than three autopsies, one of them performed on a budgie, and, finally, a breathless chase through the dockyards and a maze of containers and ship loading equipment until John finally tackled their suspect to the ground with a TV-worthy move that would have made several rugby teams consider signing him up if only they had seen it.

They were both in great spirits when they went back to Baker Street with celebratory take-out and a bottle of wine that definitely didn't go with the Chinese food they had gotten but would be drunk anyway.

It was as perfect a week as it could be in a reality in which John did not live at Baker Street and Sherlock tried to shove the thoughts of all that was missing out of his mind and focus on what he did have.

John had skipped two shifts at the clinic for this case and they had pulled an all-nighter at 221b together, trying to find the evidence they needed in the victim's e-mail correspondence.

So when they walked up the stairs, Sherlock had every expectation of spending a wonderful evening with the only person he wished to see.

He was therefore not at all pleased to walk into his own sitting room and find Mary Morstan standing in the middle of the flat.

She looked like a stern governess and he didn't think it was a good look on her at all. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of him, which was just plain confusing. Surely she should have expected him to show up in his own home?

Then she looked past him at John and the frown got wiped away and replaced by an almost dazzling smile that was so fake it put Sherlock's teeth on edge. How John could stand to be in the same room with her, let alone the same relationship, was beyond him.

"John, there you are! I was beginning to think you wouldn't come home ever again," she said and the sarcasm was so thick you could have used it as a winter coat.

"Mary!" John sounded as surprised as Sherlock felt. "Were we meeting here?"

"Can't a woman just go and meet her fiancé when he hasn't shown his face in two days despite living with her?"

He grinned and stepped forward to kiss her. Sherlock promptly turned towards the kitchen to deposit their take-out containers on the table so he wouldn't have to see it.

"Of course you can," John said, though Sherlock thought it sounded a bit forced. "We just got back from the Yard."

"Well, you clearly had time to pick up some food on the way," Mary said. "Good to know you're finding time to eat even though you can't text."

"That would be because his phone is currently in evidence, actually," Sherlock said, taking the remaining containers from John's unresisting hands. "It happens rather a lot."

"Didn't get smashed this time, though," John added, smiling. "Lestrade said I can have it back tomorrow once they're done processing."

Mary didn't look very mollified but clearly couldn't find a reason to keep being angry with him for not contacting her. "Did you at least catch your criminal of the day?"

"Mmh-hhm. Sure did. And it'll make a splendid blog post, don't you think, Sherlock?"

"If you manage to write it up properly for once," Sherlock said, forcing himself to keep his voice light and his expression pleasant even as everything in him screamed to get Mary out of the flat. This was nothing short of an intrusion in his territory and it made him bristle internally. He wanted her out.

"So does that mean you're going to come home tonight?" Mary asked.

"Yes, of course," John replied, sounding surprised. "I was just going to eat something first. It takes a while to get home on the tube and we haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Oh you had breakfast together, did you?" she asked snidely.

Sherlock felt his every muscle stiffen at her tone. "If you can call it that. Lestrade sent an intern out to Tesco for their meal deal and we had a bunch of mediocre sandwiches that we had to fight half of Scotland Yard for. Not exactly what you would call nourishing."

It was the truth but he mostly said it because he knew it was imperative to make the time they spent together sound as unromantic as possible. Mary clearly already suspected that he was a threat to her, it would not do to pour oil into the flames.

"I think Sergeant Donovan elbowed me in the stomach," John provided, wincing at the memory. "But I think I may have stepped on her foot in retaliation, so we're even."

"No, that was Dimmock's foot you stepped on," Sherlock corrected him absently. "But you snatched the last ham and cheese sandwich right from under Donovan's hand, so you're definitely even."

John shrugged. "Well, you need to eat all the calories you can get," he said. "I know better than to try and give you anything containing even a suggestion of salad when you're on a case."

Sherlock managed to hide his wince at these words. They were too familiar, too much of a relationship thing. As much as he wanted to hear that, it wasn't the sort of thing Mary should witness.

"I appreciate your fighting spirit," he said. "Regardless of the reasoning. Now sit down and grab some chopsticks before this grows cold." He took a breath and rallied himself. "Mary?"

She seemed surprised at being offered a pair of chopsticks herself. "Oh. I'm fine, thank you. You boys eat."

Sherlock shook his head. "We always buy too much and there is a limit to how many leftovers I can eat. Please have some."

What he really wanted was for her to excuse herself again and leave, but of course that didn't happen. With a small smile and an "Oh well, if you're sure", Mary accepted the chopsticks and sat down at the table with them.

Her presence put a noticeable damper on the mood and Sherlock knew he wasn't alone in feeling that way. Whether she knew it or not, Mary wasn't merely intruding in his territory but also in a part of John's life that she wasn't supposed to venture into. From the stiff conversation and the long silences that followed, Sherlock could tell that John wasn't happy, which in turn made him feel rather better about the entire situation.

Mary, clearly sensing the awkwardness, began to prattle on about this and that, telling John about what she had been up to while he had been on the case. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that she deliberately excluded him from the conversation, and neither did the frown on John's face when he noticed the same.

And then Sherlock reached for another spring roll and Mary broke off mid-word. "What's that?"

Sherlock blinked at her. "It's a spring roll, Mary. You've already had two. I assure you, they are perfectly edible."

She glared at him. "Not the food. On your hand."

Oh. He had honestly forgotten about the ring at that point. It was just another part of him.

"It's a ring," he said slowly. "One example of the large variety of jewellery available to humans."

"Well, take it off," she said.

Sherlock saw John's portion of fried rice drop from the chopsticks of his suddenly limp hand.

He stared back at Mary, wondering if she had lost her mind. "No."

"I want you to take it off," she said, her voice shaking with anger. "You have no right to wear this."

He felt his own anger boil to the surface immediately and made a deliberate choice to keep his voice calm. Let her appear unhinged, it would do her no good. He would take the high road.

"I have every right," he said. "First of all, I can wear whatever jewellery I like, on whichever body part I like. If I wanted to get a nipple pierced tomorrow, there is no one on this earth who could stop me, and certainly no one will stop me from wearing anything as simple as a ring. Secondly, you are the last person I'll come to for advice on jewellery."

He was so busy watching the words hit home that it took him a moment to realise that John had choked on his next bite and was coughing, involuntary tears in his eyes.

Mary opened her mouth to protest further but Sherlock merely stared at her, calm and as perfectly composed as he could bring himself to be.

She glared right back. "Don't start a fight with me that you can't win," she hissed.

He blinked. "Well, I'm clearly not going to take off this ring just because you said so," he pointed out.

"He's mine," she bit out through clenched teeth. "And you can't have him."

"Mary!" John exclaimed, scandalised, even as Sherlock forced himself not to bat an eye. The words hit hard - she knew exactly where to aim. He forced the pain aside and curled his lips in an expression of abject pity.

"I think it's time for you to go now," he said, noting that John was very clearly not going to eat any more. "It was good to see you, John. Thanks for your help on this case. I'll be in touch."

"Yeah," John said, rising from his chair. "Mary, why don't you go downstairs and find a cab, I have something to discuss with Sherlock. I'll join you in a minute."

She left with a last venomous glance in Sherlock's direction and he watched her until the door slammed shut behind her.

Before he had time to enjoy this little victory, John rounded on him. "What was that?"

Sherlock reared back. "What are you attacking me for? She very clearly started it."

"I don't care who started what," John snapped. "I don't want you antagonising my fiancée like that."

"She's been antagonising herself," Sherlock snapped back. "All I was doing was try to have dinner in peace. I did not invite her here. I certainly didn't ask for her opinion."

John sighed and deflated. "You're right. I'm sorry. I know it wasn't her place to walk in here and make demands. But you could have handled it better."

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I could have informed her that I have every right to wear this and even have a marriage certificate that says so. You will notice that I didn't."

For a moment, John looked like he wanted to argue the point, but then he gave up. "Fine. Whatever. I'll have a word with her about this, too."

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Listen, I want you two to get along. You're important to me and I'm going to marry her. I don't want the rest of our lives to be filled with these arguments and you two snapping at each other all the time."

It took every bit of Sherlock's self-control not to flinch at his words. Or, worse, to just curl up on the floor and scream.

"Don't worry," he said, when he was reasonably sure his voice wouldn't break. "I can safely promise you that after your wedding, I won't be arguing with her at all."

He had no intention of setting foot within half a mile of John if Mary was anywhere in his vicinity, but that was not something he would ever say out loud.

John sighed again and relaxed a little. "Thank you. And thanks for calling about the case, that was a good one."

Sherlock smiled, relieved to be back on safer ground. "It really was. I'll call you if anything good comes in. Now go on, before she decides to come back up."

He nodded towards the hall and John smiled. "Right."

And then he stepped forward and hugged him, quickly but firmly. "Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock barely managed to raise his arms in time to hug him back, too preoccupied by John's sudden closeness. "Good night, John."

John stepped back, gave him another smile, and left. Sherlock stared after him, unsure how to feel.

*****

"Was that really necessary?" John asked as he joined Mary in the cab.

She crossed her arms and stared out of the window, but made no reply.

He sighed. "Antagonising him won't make him do what we want him to any faster. Quite the opposite. He's as contrary as a person can be."

Mary turned her head to transfer her glare onto him. "I'm starting to wonder if you even want him to sign those damn papers. It's been well over a month, John, and nothing has changed."

"I do," he assured her. "But I also want to salvage our friendship and if I make him sign these papers by force, it will all go up in flames. This is important to me, Mary."

She softened a little. "It's just hard not to wonder, you know? Here I am, with a fiancé who is married to his best friend who won't sign the divorce papers. And I'm not stupid, John. I know what everyone thinks about the two of you. Or used to think."

John groaned. "Well, they can think what they want but I'm not gay. And Sherlock isn't ... he just doesn't feel things that way. It's a ridiculous assumption to make. Sherlock and I have never once been in a relationship or even discussed the possibility of it."

"You still got married!" she reminded him. "That's got to mean something, right?"

"It was a sensible, strategic decision. With the sort of trouble we used to get into on cases, being spouses would stop us from having to give statements in court that could hurt each other and we got access to one another at the hospital, if we ever needed it. Not that we ever did."

"You didn't even remember you were married at all," Mary said. "How can you possibly know these were the reasons?"

"Because he listed them," John said. "And because they are the only sensible explanation. It's a matter of convenience and he's using it now to make a point about how far we've grown apart. That's fair and he is right. I've been happier since we managed to resume our friendship. I'm happier when I get to work cases with him and talk shit and have terrible take-out." He grasped her hand. "But that's what friends are for and you'll have to accept that he is mine and this is what we do. It doesn't mean I want to build my whole life with him."

But even as he said it, he couldn't help but feel a slight pang of longing. He used to have his whole life built around Sherlock and it had been brilliant. But that was all in the past and it didn't do to dwell on things that were long gone.

Mary smiled at his words and turned her hand to lace their fingers together. "Well, so long as we all know that..."

"Don't worry," John said. "Just let me do this my way and I promise Sherlock will sign the papers and we will get married soon enough."


	13. Chapter 13

The peaceful atmosphere didn't last long.

Just two weeks later, Mary's patience was nearing its end.

"You've spent barely any time with me recently. It's always Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. I'm tired of it, John. He's had his fun and you're obviously friends again so please, go and make him sign these damn papers."

John knew there was no point in arguing. Mary was right. It had gone on long enough. He had done everything Sherlock had asked and definitely fulfilled his part of their agreement. Now all that was left was for Sherlock to hold up his end.

However, before he could raise the topic with Sherlock, they got a new case and spent the next two days running through Soho and preventing an act of malicious sabotage at a theatre.

While they were wrapping up the details of the case at the Yard late that night, John excused himself to go to the loo. He was just finished drying his hands when he heard Lestrade's voice outside and paused.

"So, how's the hubby situation?" the DI asked.

"Unchanged." That was Sherlock and John blinked in surprise - he hadn't known Sherlock had spoken to the DI about their issues.

"You know, I'd really like to meet this guy," Lestrade said. "Just so I can shout some sense into him."

John relaxed a little. Clearly Greg had no idea. Well, that was all right, then. He braced himself to step out into the hallway but then Sherlock spoke again.

"It wouldn't make a difference, Lestrade. He's ... very firmly set in his ways."

The DI sighed and John heard him feed several coins into the vending machine outside the loos. "Yes, you did mention he wants to marry someone else. That still a thing?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry mate."

"It's not your fault," Sherlock said while Lestrade, from the sounds of it, fished around in the machine, cursing and grumbling.

"No, but it still sucks. Why did he even marry you in the first place, then?"

That stopped John in his tracks. Why had he done it?

There was a longer pause and then Sherlock replied, his voice soft and oddly vulnerable. "I don't know."

Lestrade audibly clapped him on the back. "Well, there must have been a reason. Chin up, lad. Have you considered talking to John about it? He might have a better idea of what you could do."

"I'm afraid this is beyond John's ability to help," Sherlock said, which John thought was a very diplomatic response. Help with what though? There was no help needed. All Sherlock had to do was sign the bloody papers and be done with it.

"Yeah, well, can't hurt to try. Lord knows you won't tell me anything about it."

"You know more than most other people do," Sherlock reminded him. "Come on, I want to wrap this up and get home before midnight for a change."

"This, coming from the man who never sleeps," Lestrade grumbled. "Fine, come along then. I think John's gone to the cafeteria for a cuppa. Let's wait in my office."

Their steps disappeared down the hall and John released a breath once they had gone. He met his own confused gaze in the mirror. What had that been about? He hadn't known Sherlock and Lestrade talked about things besides work, but this had been a downright friendly conversation about Sherlock's private life, which was not something John had ever seen him do. Hell, Sherlock barely spoke to _him_ about it, even back when they had been flatmates!

Still, Sherlock's words kept returning to him. _'I don't know.'_

That didn't make sense - Sherlock must know! He was the only one out of the two of them who had any memory of their wedding day, after all. There was no way he couldn't know why John had apparently decided to marry him. Had they played a game? Made a stupid joke that had turned serious? There were endless possibilities. Surely they hadn't just gone and done it without at least some sort of reason?

But there had been something else about Sherlock's tone, something that nagged at John.

It was the way he had sounded - so oddly lost, as if his lack of knowledge wasn't limited to John's motives but to the question of why anyone would want to be married to him. As if he had thought and thought and not been able to come up with any reason at all. The very idea did things to John that he could not possibly describe and he shook his head before he could lose himself in his thoughts.

He washed his hands again, just for something to do, straightened his shoulders and nodded to himself. He would find a way to show Sherlock. To let him know that there were a million reasons why a person would want to marry him.

 _'Because'_ John reasoned, completely unaware of the irony of his thoughts, _'who wouldn't want to marry Sherlock?'_

*****

Sherlock was confused. In the past couple of days, John had been ... different. There really was no other word for it. Communicative? Certainly that, too. He had smiled at Sherlock a lot and he paid him more compliments than even in the beginning of their friendship all those years ago, when it seemed every single thought Sherlock had had was amazing.

But this was different.

In the past four days, John had complimented him on his intelligence, his humour, his hair, his tea making skills and a dozen other things that Sherlock had all very carefully filed away in his Mind Palace.

He didn't know what was happening or why but it was certainly nice to be appreciated in this way and so Sherlock had opted for being puzzled but also pleased.

They were just cleaning up after having invited Mrs Hudson up for dinner and were now washing the dishes side by side. She had tried to get involved, of course, to thank them for the lovely evening, and Sherlock had tartly informed her that her evening would be all the lovelier if she didn't start doing any work now and she had much better relax. Mrs Hudson had translated this to mean 'go down and have a herbal soother' and had promptly done so, leaving him quite alone with John.

Which, admittedly, she had probably wanted to do anyway. Now that Sherlock thought about it, she had given in surprisingly easily.

And now they were alone and doing the dishes, being properly domestic. He couldn't recall the last time they had done something together that was so reminiscent of their time living together. And of course he would rather get shot by someone than to draw John's attention to it.

"Do you realise you automatically help Mrs Hudson out of her chair every time she gets up?" John asked.

Sherlock turned to him, surprised both by the statement and that John seemed to have noticed something like that. "I do?"

"Yes. You're just ... unthinkingly kind and considerate with her." John paused. "Of course you still make a conscious effort to be as prickly as possible but I haven't heard you snap at her in ages."

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes, well, can't really afford to make her angry with me, now, can I?"

He bit his lip before he could add _'I'd have no one left in my life if I did'_.

Did John have any idea how much Sherlock had mellowed thanks to him? How much he had changed as a person simply because John existed?

"Well, we are approaching Easter, it would be horrible if she decided to revoke your cookie privileges," John joked. "You and your sweet tooth would be lost without her."

Sherlock grinned, deciding to go with the joke. "Yes, well, Christmas and Easter are the only times of the year where I do seem to gain weight."

"Hmm, I firmly believe this is the only reason you haven't collapsed yet. You were scarily thin when we first met. I'd like to think you're eating more these days."

"I think it's because I don't really have a choice," Sherlock said. "You keep showing up and making me eat lunch and dinner and breakfast and whatnot and Mrs Hudson is always stuffing me with pastries these days. I think she believes that if she keeps me fed, I won't disappear on her again."

John snorted. "Well, I hope she's right. I don't want to go through that ever again."

Sherlock sighed, feeling the weight of all he had done. "John ... you do know I'm sorry, right? Because I am. If there had been another way-"

"I know," John interrupted. "I know. We've been over this, remember? I understand, even though I can't say I'll ever like it. But I am grateful for all you have done and I am beyond happy to have you back here with me. All right?"

Sherlock nodded, a small lump in his throat. He swallowed, trying to clear it. "I'm glad to be back here with you, too, John."

They smiled at each other and Sherlock wondered if he was imagining the way the air seemed to thicken between them, if it was just his fancy that made it seem as if they were closer to one another than they had been a moment before.

A glass slipped from John's hand and landed in the sink with a splash, startling them both. Sherlock blinked and turned his head away, refocusing on drying the dishes.

"I did ... miss you. While I was gone," he forced himself to say. "The only thing that got me through these two years was the knowledge that you were safe and that I would see you again if only I made it through this mission alive. It was all the motivation I needed."

He decided not to mention how incredibly painful John's reaction and the ensuing radio silence had been.

Perhaps something in his expression or simply his silence on the topic gave him away, because John dried his right hand and squeezed his arm.

"I'm sorry. I know my reaction wasn't ... well, it wasn't good. I stood at your grave and asked for you to come back and then when you did, I almost killed you myself. That wasn't okay. And it wasn't fair to cut you off for so long. You tried to explain what was going on and I should have listened. But I was so angry and so hurt ... you have no idea what it was like, thinking you were dead. Nothing made sense anymore, the entire world had become sort of grey and pointless. And I just ... having you back was exhilarating but it was also terrifying. Still is, if I'm honest. I need you to take better care of yourself, Sherlock. Because I can't do that again."

That was more honesty and definitely more conversation about feelings than Sherlock was used to.

"I promise," he said, making sure to meet John's gaze this time. "I promise I won't ever deliberately put you through that pain again. We both know we can't help the dangers of the job but it's infinitely safer for me to have you there with me. I've gotten used to having back-up. They almost got the drop on me twice while I was away because I forgot you weren't there to watch my back. But I made it through. And I made it home. That's all that matters."

John nodded jerkily. "Yes. Yes it is."

Sherlock nodded back. "Either way, I will never leave again, John. I'll always be right here, in Baker Street. And I'll always-"

He stopped himself and shook his head, biting back the words he knew John wouldn't want to hear.

"Always what?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head again. "It doesn't matter. I'll always be here, is my point. So whenever you need me, you know where to find me."

John smiled. "All right. I appreciate it, really. I, uh, I don't think I've really told you that but I'm glad you're home. I'm glad we're friends again."

Sherlock smiled back, relieved. "Me too, John."

There was a pause as they continued with the dishes, finally clearing them all away and letting the water drain out of the sink.

“Will you tell me?” John asked.

“Tell you what?”

“About your time away,” he said. “I should have asked right when you came back. I've wanted to ask for so long, but I was so afraid of what I might hear. But I've … I've seen the scars on your back and you keep mentioning bits of it and I just … I want to know. If you'll tell me.”

Sherlock hesitated. He hadn't expected this to come up tonight. But then again, when else?

“You don't have to, of course,” John said hastily, noticing his hesitation. “Whenever you're ready.”

“No.” Sherlock paused, swallowed. “No, you're right. I … I would like to tell you. But it is not a pretty story and it may take a while.”

John shot him a half-smile and gestured towards the sitting room. “I have time.”

So they sat in their respective armchairs and Sherlock finally told him everything.

By the time his tale was done, it was past two in the morning and John opted to sleep on the sofa.

Sherlock watched him get settled with the old afghan safely tucked around his compact body, and committed the sight to memory. John, back where he belonged, if only for a night. It would have to do.


	14. Chapter 14

Two days later, John accompanied Sherlock on a case for a private client. Those were usually less fun than the ones for the Yard but they tended to pay well. As Sherlock always insisted on splitting their earnings from these clients, John tagged along, figuring he could use the extra money for his wedding and honeymoon. Surely Mary would be pleased if they could splurge a little on their getaway, the destination of which they still hadn't decided on.

This particular client had invited them to some sort of private fundraiser function because she was worried about someone stealing funds from her charity.

It was a serious accusation and wouldn't be too difficult to resolve, so Sherlock had been happy to agree and John had let himself be convinced easily.

However, he quickly regretted that decision when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom in a full tuxedo that had clearly been tailored to his precise measurements.

John, wearing his best suit himself, promptly lost his entire train of thought.

The suit seemed to cling to Sherlock's body in all the right places and his hair fell just so across his forehead and John stared at him and thought: _'Oh god I want to kiss him.'_

He swayed a little where he stood, almost physically bowled over by the idea, and hastily fled to the kitchen for a glass of water before Sherlock, who had been adjusting his bow tie, had a chance to notice.

_'Pull yourself together'_ John ordered himself. _'This is not the time.'_

No, the time had been three years ago, before Sherlock had died, back when John had just begun to realise how much he meant to him.

There was no chance of any of this now and it was ridiculous to think that there ever could have been. If he and Sherlock had managed to get married without anything ever happening between them, there was no chance of anything happening now, when John was _bloody engaged damn it, don't forget that._

He sighed softly to himself, drowned his glass of water and shoved all ridiculous thoughts away. They were friends. That was all there was to it, all it was ever going to be. This was just pre-wedding jitters. The sooner he got over it, the better.

*****

They made it to the event in good time and although Sherlock looked so good John had trouble keeping his eyes off of him, he managed to put on a convincing smile and chat with disgustingly rich strangers as they mixed with the other guests.

At one point, John excused himself to go to the loo. He stopped at the free bar on his way back to get them both another glass of wine and then went in search of Sherlock.

He finally found him after squeezing past two people who might be investment bankers; he was standing at the edge of the room and talking animatedly to a handsome man about his own age. At first, John thought he was subtly interrogating the man and so he hung back, not wanting to interrupt the conversation in case Sherlock was steering it in a particular direction.

But he soon realised that the other man's body language was all wrong. He didn't look like someone who was being questioned, no matter how subtly, by Sherlock. He looked like someone who had seen a beautiful man and wanted to enjoy his company for a little while longer.

It made something in John's stomach twist that he couldn't quite explain. He thought it might be jealousy and didn't like the thought. He had no right to be jealous. Sherlock didn't belong to him, after all. And he had Mary, for fuck's sake. The only reason he was here right now was for the extra cash for their wedding. If Sherlock wanted to flirt with someone, he was well within his rights to do so.

Well, that was just another reason to hang back, wasn't it? John stayed put and took a sip of his wine, keeping a casual eye on the two. The man looked good - tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy smile on his face. And Sherlock was returning the smile, was still talking to him about god only knew what.

John ignored the way his chest tightened at the sight. It was not his place to interfere.

And then the man made his move. To John, who had spent a lot of his life flirting with people, it was obvious. He could almost read the words off the man's lips. _'Want to meet up for a drink sometime?'_ or something of that nature.

Sherlock hesitated. Bit his lip. And then he smiled a small, regretful smile and indicated his left hand and the ring on it.

Clearly that didn't disturb his admirer all that much. He merely raised an eyebrow and John just knew he was suggesting that this might be a reason but not a deterrent.

Sherlock shook his head and took half a step backwards.

John took that as his cue to interfere after all. He tried not to question why the ability to take action filled him with relief.

Several quick steps brought him to Sherlock's side. "Here's your wine," he said, handing Sherlock his glass and making sure their fingers brushed as he did so. "Who's your friend?"

The other man's eyes had widened slightly at his appearance and he hastily rearranged his features into something a lot less flirty. "Oh, I'm nobody. I was just asking your husband here if you did a lot for charity."

"Quite a lot," John said, his smile sharp. "Only last week I helped some guy learn how to keep his hands to himself, much to the advantage of his personal health."

"Right," the man said. "Well, if you will excuse me ..."

And he disappeared into the crowd without bothering to even try and come up with an excuse.

"He didn't even tell us about his own charitable efforts," John said with mock disappointment. "What a shame."

He finally turned to look at Sherlock and found him staring at him with an inscrutable look on his face. "What?"

Sherlock blinked and the expression was gone. "Nothing. Thanks for interrupting."

"Could have done that a little earlier but I wasn't sure if you wanted me to. You seemed quite happy to talk to him."

A shrug. "He was nice. One of the few people in this room who aren't here to feed their own self-importance, which already sets him apart from the crowd."

John nodded. "That's good, isn't it? Perhaps you should have taken him up on his offer."

"And what would you know about any offers he made?" Sherlock asked.

John laughed. "Come now. I may not be able to deduce people like you do but I do recognise flirting when I see it. He asked you out."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And I said no."

"Yeah, I saw. That's why I came over to interfere, seemed he was being a bit too persistent."

"I could have handled him," Sherlock said, shrugging.

He was probably right about that. Several well-chosen words would have been enough to send the man running, John was sure. And yet ... "Why did you say no?"

"Pardon?"

"When he asked you out. Why did you say no?"

Sherlock blinked at him, confused. "I'm married, John."

John sighed. "Yes, I know. If you wanted my permission, you've got it. I don't really have a leg to stand on, do I? You can shag whomever you like, Sherlock. If you liked him, go get his number and see what happens. Who knows, it might turn into something."

"It wouldn't," Sherlock said firmly. "And I don't want to shag anyone who-"

He broke off again, clearly frustrated.

John decided to back off. "All right. Fine. I'm not saying you have to. I'm just saying, if you wanted, you could."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't stray, John. I'm a man of few principles but this is one of them. I don't take any sort of vow lightly, which is why it annoys me so much when every bloody case I get seems to end up revolving around adultery in some form. I cannot abide disloyalty."

It was quite the longest speech John had ever heard from him on the subject and he stared at his friend, mouth agape. "All right. I'm sorry I suggested it. But I still think you should get his number. You might want to give him a call once our divorce is through."

Sherlock's face turned stony. "No thank you. He deserves better than to be used as a rebound. Now come on, we need to talk to our client, I think I've found out who's been embezzling funds away from her charity while she wasn't looking."

He swept away before John could get another word in.

John watched him go and forced himself not to stare at his arse. _'I cannot abide disloyalty'_ Sherlock had said and he was right. John was engaged, straying from his fiancée was not something that Sherlock would condone. Not to mention that John didn't want to, damn it. He loved Mary. It was just … difficult to remember, sometimes.

*****

Sherlock changed out of his tuxedo as soon as he arrived at home. He exchanged it for his usual suit, just in case he found himself wanting to go out again despite the lateness of the evening.

The man, Alexander, was still on his mind, as was John's reaction to the entire episode. How was it possible that John still didn't have a clue? As if Sherlock would ever so much as consider taking anyone home while that ring was still on his finger. As if he would ever consider doing it once the ring was gone.

He didn't know how he had managed not to snap at John when he had brought up the bloody divorce again. Did John really know him so little? Was he that good at hiding or was John just that oblivious? Or perhaps he simply didn't want to see.

But John had spent the past week or so complimenting him at every opportunity, telling him how great he was, how kind, how clever, how good he looked. It hadn't escaped Sherlock's notice that John had spent a good portion of the night simply staring at him, drinking in the sight of him in a tuxedo. Perhaps he should wear one more often.

Well, the next opportunity would probably be John and Mary's bloody wedding. Fat lot of good it would do him then.

And he would rather sew his own mouth shut than to tell John just why he would never ...

He shook his head, frustrated, and resumed pacing the sitting room. All this pent-up energy in him, born of anger and frustration and a heartbreak he didn't want to admit to, needed an outlet and if that meant he had to pace until the early hours of the morning, he would. There was no one there to witness him acting like a caged animal anyway, so why bother pretending?

Perhaps he would still be at it when John came back tomorrow. If he came back. Well, he probably would. They had received a very generous cheque for their troubles, although it had been little more than a matter of observation. He knew full well what John wanted his half of that payment for and had tried not to think about it too much. A small, petty part of him had considered rejecting the job, just to throw another wrench in John's wedding plans. But he knew that wasn't fair and John would call him out on it. And in the end, his own philanthropy had interfered. Much as most people annoyed him, Sherlock had a soft spot for helping where he could. Even if it meant helping a charity find an embezzler at the cost of helping John finance his wedding.

But the way John had looked at him wouldn't leave his mind. The honest appreciation in his gaze when he had seen Sherlock in his tuxedo, and the sharpness in his tone as he had challenged Alexander. Was John even aware that he had done it? Had he realised he was acting like a jealous husband staking his claim?

Sherlock couldn't deny the thrill it had sent down his spine, this idea of being claimed by John. Perhaps it hadn't been much in the bigger picture of things, certainly irrelevant considering John's words following that, but it had reminded him of John's notable jealousy all these years ago when Irene Adler had crossed their path. Back then, Sherlock had still held on to some hope that they would eventually work this out, that if he were patient for just a bit longer, John would finally realise what was right in front of his face.

Perhaps that idea had played into his saying yes when John had suggested getting married.

He jerked his mind away from that memory. It wasn't a day he could think of with any sort of equanimity and he was already in too much upheaval today to want to add more to it.

Sherlock began pacing faster, forcing himself to only think of today.

That John had had the nerve to tell him to just go and shag whomever he wanted! As if it was that easy. Perhaps it was for him? But Sherlock wasn't like that, couldn't even fathom how people just looked at random strangers and chose to take them to their bed, as easily as getting groceries.

Even his attraction to John had been a surprise and the fact that almost five years had not been enough for him to get over it spoke for itself. As he had told John today: it wasn't going to happen.

He was never going to look at anyone else and feel this way. It was just his luck that John wasn't looking back. At least he had managed to stop himself before he could say any such thing out loud. It had been a close thing, though. _"I don't want to shag anyone who isn't you"_ had been on the tip of his tongue and he wasn't sure how John still hadn't caught on to that. He couldn't honestly believe that Sherlock stuck to their marriage on principle, could he?

Was it possible that John really was that clueless? That he could be jealous of other people's attentions to Sherlock but still tell him to go and pursue them without realising the contradiction of thought and action? That he could spend all evening staring at Sherlock with open appreciation of his looks and then go home to his fiancée whom he claimed to love?

Sherlock didn't have enough experience with how other people felt these things to know if that was in any way possible. Perhaps it was. Human emotion had turned out to be more complicated than he had anticipated on every single occasion he had encountered it. Surely that had to mean it was possible after all.

But did it mean he still had a chance? Did it mean he could, given enough time, somehow make John see that he didn't need Mary at all? God, he hoped so.

The only question then was how? When John was so deep in denial, how could Sherlock possibly reach him? He didn't want to get his hopes up, just in case John ended up retreating even further. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock got it all wrong while trying to handle any sort of emotion.

Based on today's experience, the best way to draw John in would be to flirt with someone else and look absolutely amazing while doing it. Unfortunately, since he had already told John he didn't want anyone, John was unlikely to fall for that. Therefore, he would have to limit himself to looking as good as he possibly could. John had complimented his hair the other day, so he would make sure to show it to its best advantage. Most people looked at curls and had an immediate urge to touch them - he could bank on that.

It would just be a slow, careful seduction, done entirely incidentally. There would be no flirting and no touching and nothing that could possibly alarm John or make him think Sherlock was trying to lure him in. He honestly didn't think he could, even if he tried.

No, this was going to be him shouting to the world that he was present and available and then he would just have to hope that John got the message and ran with it.

And then what? What if John took the proverbial bait, loathe as Sherlock was to call it such even in his mind? What if John decided he wanted him after all?

He recalled the look in John's eyes earlier today, the way his gaze had dragged across his body from head to toe and back up again. Even in retrospect, it made Sherlock shiver, nerve endings coming alive in response to the blatant stare.

Perhaps John could be induced to stare at him like this again. Preferably right here, in the privacy of home where there were no people around that could interrupt. Mrs Hudson had stopped coming upstairs at all when John was there unless explicitly invited to do so, just so she wouldn't accidentally interrupt anything. She hadn't said as much but Sherlock knew her well enough to guess at her reasoning.

They would be entirely undisturbed. Just the two of them. That would give John ample opportunity to stare. And then who knew what might happen if Sherlock tilted his head in a certain way or met his gaze for too long.

He shivered again and had to abruptly stop his pacing to grasp hold of the mantelpiece. "Fuck."

That hadn't been the plan. But, well, there was all that pent-up energy, all that tension that wanted out. He glanced towards the window. It had started to rain, not exactly ideal conditions for a walk in the dark.

So why not stay indoors instead? Why not stay right here and think about John's gaze and John's jealousy and John staking a claim on him?

It was late, the doors to the flat were closed and Mrs Hudson had gone to bed at least an hour ago. He could indulge himself a little. Perhaps if he got it out of his system now, he could maintain his composure better the next time he met John in person.


	15. Chapter 15

John arrived home with a heavy heart. His own reactions tonight had told him that this entire situation was getting out of control. He had been so wrapped up in rebuiling his friendship with Sherlock, he had completely failed to take into consideration the rat's tail of other emotions he associated with his best friend.

He had to get a grip on that before Sherlock had a chance to notice – or worse, Mary. It wasn't fair to her, either, and John knew he was set on his course already. He needed someone who was his, someone safe, someone whose chances of dying and leaving him behind weren't at minimum 30 percent on any given day.

There was only so long he could delude himself and after Sherlock's little outburst tonight, there was no point in letting himself slide any farther down that particular rabbit hole.

“I need to go see Sherlock tomorrow,” he announced to Mary as soon as he had taken off his coat and shoes. “Tie up some loose ends.”

“You only saw him tonight,” Mary protested. “Is this really necessary?”

"I'm afraid so. And it'll allow me to pick up the cheque, too,” John mused, suddenly recalling why he had agreed to accompany Sherlock on this case at all.

That piqued Mary's interest. "What cheque?"

He smiled and sat down next to her on the sofa, wrapping his arm around her and firmly reminding himself that this was what he wanted. "We had a private client tonight. Those are usually quite boring but they pay well. Got a really generous cheque that we usually split in half. It's more than enough for you and I to have an absolutely splendid honeymoon. So I was thinking maybe we should take another look at that hotel you mentioned the other day."

Mary raised her head to look at him, her eyes shining. "Really? Oh John!"

She kissed him and he smiled, delighted by her joy. "Yes, really. Come on, get your laptop. Let's have another look."

They spent the evening cuddled together on the sofa, scrolling through hotel websites and trying to decide on which one they liked best. And although they went to bed reasonably early, it took a long time before they actually fell asleep.

And John tried not to think about Sherlock at all.

*****

The next day saw John arriving at Baker Street just before noon, smiling and happy with his place in the world. It was a beautiful day, his fiancée was happy, his friendship with Sherlock was as solid as he could hope for, the night's rain had stopped and he was determined not to let his own stupidity get in his way any longer. Some things had best stay buried, where they couldn't do any damage.

He took the stairs two at a time and found Sherlock standing by the fireplace, examining himself in the mirror with a rather critical look. He was wearing one of his nicer suits and a shirt John had never seen on him that looked devastating against his pale skin.

"Going out?" John asked, gesturing at the ensemble.

Sherlock blinked up at him and beamed. "Oh, John! Just in time, I wanted your opinion on something."

"My opinion?"

"Yes. It's my mother's birthday next month and she's throwing a big to-do for the occasion. Not my usual forte, as you well know." He grimaced. "All these family members one wishes to avoid thrown into the same room is nothing short of torture."

John laughed. "Don't I know it. What do you need my opinion for, then?"

"I need to look impressive," Sherlock said. "And I mean ... what do the kids call it? Drop-dead gorgeous. Absolutely stunning, is what I'm getting at, John."

John blinked. "All right..."

"I need you to tell me which of these shirts works better," Sherlock elaborated. "This one?" He gestured to himself. "Or another one I've got in my closet."

"Uh ..." John hesitated. If asked for his honest opinion, he would have to say that Sherlock always looked drop-dead gorgeous. It didn't matter what colour shirt he wore. But of course he couldn't possibly say any such thing aloud. It would give too much away. And besides, it just wasn't done. "You do realise I don't have a clue about fashion, right? I mean, you complain about my jumpers often enough."

Sherlock waved that away. "Yes, yes, but you do tend to at least appreciate it in others."

John couldn't argue with that. "Fine, yes. Show me the other one."

Sherlock beamed at him and jumped up. "Give me five minutes. Oh, and your cheque is on the kitchen table, help yourself."

He disappeared down the hall and into his bedroom. Shaking his head, John pocketed the cheque without even glancing at it and moved to sit on the sofa. Apparently he had accidentally stumbled into a fashion show. He couldn't recall Sherlock ever outright asking for his opinion on his appearance except for a case, in which case it had usually been more along the lines of _'do you think I look enough like a person who has just been beaten up or should I add some more fake blood?'_. Fashion hadn't ever played a role in it until now.

Well, he could indulge Sherlock in this and then get back to his original reason for coming.

And then Sherlock stepped back into the sitting room and said "All right, what do you think of this one?" and John looked up and lost his train of thought just as he had done the day before.

Sherlock was wearing a black suit with a dinner jacket that had a slight shimmer to its lapels and beneath that was a plum-coloured shirt similar to one he used to own years ago. He filled it in much better now and looked absolutely gorgeous in it.

John gaped. "Uh ..."

Sherlock turned once and John found his gaze dropping a little before hastily raising his eyes back to Sherlock's head. "Or rather the other one?" Sherlock asked, sounding unsure. "Mother so loves to show me off – heaven knows why – and I want her to be pleased."

John swallowed. "Well, if she shows you off in that outfit here, you'll probably have people forming a disorderly queue," he managed. "That guy from the fundraiser yesterday would have a heart attack."

Sherlock blushed. "You think so?"

"I'm 100% convinced," John assured him and tried to squash down on the unease in his stomach at the thought. "You couldn't be more stunning if you tried."

To his surprise, Sherlock's blush deepened.

"You must know that," John said, aware that he was on very thin ice here. "I mean, you do own a mirror. You must know you're beautiful."

Sherlock shook his head. "John, I have the world's weirdest face."

John laughed. "You really, really don't. I'm sure some people will disagree with me but who gives a fuck about them? Your mum is going to be absolutely delighted if you show up in this."

"Thank you," Sherlock said softly. "I'll make sure to wear this, then."

"Yeah," John said, letting his gaze rove over Sherlock again. Well, the man had practically invited him to ogle him, right? God, he was stunning. "Yeah, please do."

Well, soon enough someone would notice that Sherlock was gorgeous and make an effort to get to know him and find out just how amazing he really was. Perhaps by the time John came back from his honeymoon, Sherlock would have found someone who would appreciate him properly. But then again, he had already said he didn't want that, hadn't he?

The thought of Sherlock's potential admirers reminded him of why he was here at all. John took a moment to shove the irrational jealousy far down.

"Anyway," he began, and then hesitated.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said, turning away from the mirror he had been critically inspecting himself in once again. "What did you want to talk about?"

John cleared his throat. "I was just wondering if you don't think it's time now."

"Time for what?" Sherlock asked and there was something in his tone that John couldn't quite parse.

"For you to sign the papers," John said, because there was no other way of putting it. He couldn't quite bring himself to look at Sherlock as he spoke. "We've clearly managed to save our friendship and I'm sure as hell not going anywhere. You've already promised the same. And Mary is getting impatient, to tell you the truth. We were hoping for a summer wedding so we could make the most of the British weather and time is sort of running out."

Silence.

John lifted his gaze and found Sherlock staring at him, his face utterly expressionless.

"You must agree that it's way beyond time," he said, when it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to say anything. "It's ridiculous to drag this out any longer."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, his voice toneless.

John frowned. "Yes, it is. It was ridiculous from the moment I found out about this whole thing, Sherlock! Best friends don't just randomly marry each other for a lark!"

He gesticulated wildly with his arms as he spoke, hoping Sherlock wouldn't see his hands tremble.

"No," Sherlock said. "I suppose they don't."

John nodded. "Good. Glad you agree. So please sign the bloody papers so I can get my life back in order and start planning my actual wedding."

Sherlock took half a step backwards and clasped his hands behind his back. "John, I really don't understand why you are so wild to marry her."

"Because," John said slowly, carefully measuring out each word, "I want to be married to someone who loves me.”

Sherlock opened his mouth but John was too focused on getting the words out to notice. “Someone whom I can love in return."

Three seconds passed. Then five. Then Sherlock abruptly turned away.

He walked into the kitchen, back ramrod straight, and pulled the divorce papers out of a drawer that John was reasonably sure also contained several tongue depressors and a handful of pipe cleaners.

Sherlock grabbed a pen from somewhere and, to John's utter astonishment, signed swiftly. And then, still eerily wordless, he walked into his bedroom and closed the door behind himself just firmly enough to make it clear that he didn't intend to come back out.

John stared after him in astonishment. That had been easier than he had thought it would be.

He stood, walked into the kitchen and picked up the papers. There it was - unmistakeably Sherlock's signature, a bit uneven from how quickly he had signed, but recognisably his.

John sighed and squashed down the odd feeling in his chest at the sight of it.

He rolled up the papers, put them in his inner jacket pocket and left. And then he spent the entire cab ride wondering why having gotten the one thing he had wanted for the past two months or so didn't make him happy.


	16. Chapter 16

There was nothing but glaring emptiness in Sherlock's head.

He barely managed to hold it together until he heard John leave before he stumbled through the bathroom door and started retching. He retched and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach, until his body matched the emptiness in his head and his breathing came in short, desperate bursts.

He had come so close ... so painfully, agonisingly close.

_'I want to be married to someone who loves me'_ John had said and Sherlock, unthinkingly, had opened his mouth... and then John had continued. _'Someone whom I can love in return.'_

Of course. There was that. He had honestly forgotten, or allowed himself to forget, or at least pushed aside the thought, that John didn't love him, that John may appreciate him and like him and think him beautiful but still _didn't love him_. Because it wasn't like that and _it had never been like that_ and Sherlock had been stupid to think it was, or ever could be.

And to think that for a moment, he had believed John would say he had changed his mind. That it was time to stop this farce and just admit that the feeling was mutual and that he didn't really want Mary after all.

The compliments, the effort John had gone to in order to spend time with him, every look and every kind word he had said ... it had all been a means to an end. And he had truly been so stupid as to think that John had ever wanted anything but for him to sign these bloody papers. _'More fool me.'_

He fumbled for his phone and managed to unlock it on the second attempt. It took a while until he had bullied his shaking hands into typing out a text and then he just stared blankly at the screen for a bit before he remembered he also had to send it.

He did, eventually.

And then he slumped against the wall and tried desperately not to think and even more desperately not to feel.

*****

John arrived at the flat he shared with Mary an hour later, a sick feeling in his stomach. He knew he had hurt Sherlock in some way with his insistence on the divorce, though Sherlock really shouldn't have been surprised. They had both known this was coming. They both agreed they were friends and that they would continue to be friends, so what was the problem?

Sherlock couldn't honestly have thought that John would just be happy to keep going as they had, could he? Even if he had been, Mary sure as hell wasn't. And he was going to marry her. He could marry her now.

The thought should fill him with joy and happy anticipation but all he felt was a sort of hollowness that didn't quite match up with how he knew he was supposed to feel. But who knew? Perhaps all people felt like that when they were about to get married. Perhaps it was just nerves.

John snorted at himself.

No, it was time to face up to the facts: He didn't want to marry Mary. He didn't want to return to this flat and have to call it home.

Accidentally marrying his best friend had been ridiculous, but at least it had made sense. There had been a logical thought process there and a solid foundation of mutual friendship. That was more than most marriages had. He didn't want his marriage with Mary to end up being like most marriages. He wanted it not to happen.

By the time he reached his front door, he had made up his mind to talk to her about it tonight. Yes, it was a bit of an abrupt one-eighty but John wasn't the sort of person to stall once he had made up his mind. That was how he had gotten into this mess in the first place, with his hasty proposal, fuelled by hurt feelings. That wasn't a proper basis for a marriage and he was going to fix that.

He walked up the stairs and let himself into the flat quietly. Mary had been coming down with a migraine when he had left and was probably napping. He took off his shoes noiselessly, hung up his coat and froze. There was a jacket already on the hook. And it wasn't his.

Something cold travelled down his spine.

He tiptoed down the hall towards the bedroom, took two steadying breaths and shoved the door open in one big swoop.

Mary and her lover almost fell out of the bed.

John stared at them wordlessly as they scrambled to cover themselves, the man looking surprised and embarrassed and then scared and Mary looking as if her life was derailing in front of her eyes.

John nodded once, sharply. "Don't bother getting up. Wouldn't want to interrupt. I'll just be collecting some of my things and I expect you to be gone when I come home. You can leave your ring on the kitchen table since you won't be needing it anymore."

Mary found her voice again. "Oh, don't you dare get all high and mighty with me, John! Did you think I liked knowing you went out and shagged that freaky husband of yours at every opportunity?"

John laughed, harsh and humourless. "See, you never did get that, did you? I've never so much as kissed him. We weren't shagging. He's just my best friend. Heaven knows why we got married, but I'm starting to think that it was a better marriage than ours could have ever hoped to be." He paused. "He signed, by the way. Not that it matters now. I was actually going to tell you I'm calling the wedding off. Goodbye, Mary."

And he turned and walked straight back out the door.

*****

Lestrade came barging through the door forty-five minutes after Sherlock's text arrived on his phone. "Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you? For fuck's sake, if you've gone off somewhere-"

And then he stepped into the bathroom, still out of breath from his mad dash up the stairs. "Shit. Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Empty eyes stared back at him but Sherlock was breathing and blinking until he made his gaze focus.

Greg dropped to his knees beside him. "All right, all right. What have you taken? How much? Answer me!"

God, he had hoped to never have to find Sherlock like this again.

"Nothing," Sherlock rasped after far too long.

"Nothing," Lestrade repeated, voice flat with disbelief. "You took nothing?"

"Don't have anything," Sherlock said. He held up his arms and Lestrade had to undo the cufflinks and buttons first so he could push the sleeves of his jacket and shirt back. No needle marks. Well, no fresh ones, just the scars from years ago. Sherlock was so pale they barely stood out against his skin.

"What the hell happened?"

Sherlock let his arms drop listlessly and didn't even wince when his bony wrist knocked against the bathroom tiles. "I signed."

Lestrade frowned. "Right. We're not having this conversation on your bathroom floor. Come on. Up you get."

He hoisted Sherlock up and wrapped an arm around his waist, glad to find the lanky git was at least able to stand on his own, if shakily. He managed to steer Sherlock back to his room and deposited him on the bed. "Right. Talk to me. What did you sign?"

And Sherlock looked up at him with eyes that were too big for his face. He looked lost and painfully young with it. "The- the divorce papers. I signed the divorce papers."

Greg stared. "What? I thought you didn't want to do that? Did he, I don't know ... did he force you? Because quite frankly, you need to get away from a guy who-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted softly. "No, he didn't force me. He just ...made me realise there was no point in holding out."

Lestrade sat down on the edge of the bed. Well, fuck. What was he supposed to do with that? But deep down he couldn't help the swell of warm pride. That Sherlock had reached out to him of all people made him think that perhaps this friendship wasn't entirely one-sided after all.

"All right," he said. "So you just signed divorce papers that you didn't want to sign. What made you change your mind?"

Sherlock looked like he was going to cry, which was more horrifying than Lestrade could easily put into words. "He... he said he wanted to be married to someone who loves him."

Lestrade blinked. "But I thought-"

Sherlock spoke right over him, a dangerous waver in his voice. "And then he said he wanted to be married to... to someone he ... he could love back."

_'Well,'_ Lestrade thought. _'Shit.'_

Suddenly, the temptation to cheat and look up Sherlock's now ex-husband was almost too much. He wanted to find that bastard and have a word or two. But first he had to look after Sherlock.

_*****_

John was holed up in a pub near his and Mary's flat – well, former flat, now – morosely staring into this half empty pint glass when his phone rang.

For a moment, he considered ignoring it, but then he realised it was Lestrade. There might be a case. Just the thing to distract him now.

"Yes?"

"John, do you have an hour or so? We need to talk. It's important."

Lestrade sounded strained, his voice gruffer than usual.

It put John on instant alert. "Of course. What happened?"

"It's about Sherlock."

John left his pint unfinished.

*****

"John, good to see you," Lestrade said, clapping him on the shoulder when John reached his table in the pub Lestrade had asked to meet him in. He already had two pints waiting in front of him.

John couldn't help but smile at the sight. "Likewise, Greg. And fantastic timing, too. I'm having one hell of a day."

Greg grimaced. "I hope I didn't pull you away from anything important."

"Nah. I was just about to drown my sorrows. Might as well do it in company, eh? What's going on? Is Sherlock all right?"

He hadn't allowed himself to feel fear on the way over - if it had been something serious, a life-or-death situation, Lestrade wouldn't have asked to meet him in a pub.

The DI sighed. "He's ... really really not all right. John ... how much do you know about that husband of his? The entire marriage, really."

John frowned. This was not what he had thought this conversation was going to be about. "I- not a lot, to be honest. As far as I know, it's a marriage of convenience. It's not ... it's not what you or I would expect a marriage to be." He paused, considering. "I don't think it was ever ... well, consumated, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

Lestrade looked grim. "He texted me about three hours ago."

He held out his phone to show John the screen. Sherlock had sent a single word.

" _Paladin_? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's a code," Lestrade said, pocketing his phone. "I made him promise to use it if he was close to falling off the bandwagon. He's only ever used it once, years ago, and when I arrived I just about managed to stop him from overdosing. So you can imagine my reaction when I got it today. I honestly don't know how I made it to Baker Street at all without getting in an accident."

John's blood had run cold at the words. "Is he all right?"

"Physically, he's fine," Lestrade hastily assured him. "I found him on the bathroom floor. He had been violently sick but I think it was more an emotional reaction than anything physically wrong with him. He was completely catatonic at first, took me a while to get him to talk to me at all. But he hadn't taken anything. Said he didn't have anything in the flat, which I honestly believe is the only reason I didn't find him with a needle in his arm."

The sick feeling John had been carrying with him all day intensified. "Greg ..."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "So of course I asked him what the hell had happened and he said he had just signed the divorce papers."

John froze.

Lestrade took one look at his face, read the surprise there, and misunderstood it. "Yeah. I was surprised, too. I know he didn't want to. He told me so himself. We spoke about it twice. Imagine that, getting Sherlock to talk about his private life twice in a row. And to me, of all people." He shook his head. "Anyway, I knew he didn't want to. So of course when he said he had signed, I was concerned. Thought he might have been forced to, in which case, you know, good riddance to the guy, don't let the door hit you on the way out. But Sherlock denied it, of course. Said it wasn't like that."

"Then why did he sign?" John asked, because he had been wondering about that for hours now.

"Apparently his dear _husband_ ," Lestrade spit out the word as if it was poison, "told him he wanted to be with someone he loved. Imagine that! Looking at your bloody spouse and telling them to their face that not only don't you love them but also that you want someone else instead. He's ... well. I'm sure you can imagine."

John blinked. That couldn't be right.

"I thought ... I thought it was for convenience," he managed. "It's ... he never said ..."

Lestrade shook his head. "Bloody hell, he really never spoke to you about it? Well, I guess he didn't want to get into something so heavy while you were just rebuilding your friendship. John, the poor sod is head over heels in love. Has been for quite some time, if you ask me. And he isn't handling this well at all."

John stared and stared and stared. "No," he finally rasped. "He can't be."

The DI shot him a look. "John, I've known Sherlock for eight years now. I may not know a lot about him, but he's ... he's very different from the person he used to be. And I admit I was surprised when I learned about this marriage of his." He grinned rather crookedly. "I always thought there'd only ever be you, to be honest."

John stared at him dumbly. He felt as if he was repeatedly being clubbed over the head. "What?"

"Well, it was quite obvious, wasn't it? You must have known," Lestrade said. "God, the way he used to look at you. I'm no Sherlock Holmes but I can just about deduce when someone is arse over tits in love, John. So to hear that he had gone and gotten himself married to fuck knows whom was a bit of a surprise. To find out he actually loves the guy even more-so. He's never looked twice at anyone who wasn't you. What did you think why we all thought you two were together? Hell, even Anderson noticed. He really was _that_ obvious about it, John."

John shook his head.

"That's ... fuck."

Lestrade shot him a pitying look. "Listen, I know you never liked these speculations but it's not like they were entirely unfounded. So I suppose I get why he wouldn't talk about his husband to you, what with your history, or rather lack thereof. But he's hurting badly. And I can't help him through this. He needs you."

John very slowly reached for his pint, gulped down most of it in several long swallows and then lowered his head onto his forearms.

"I promise you, Greg, that I am the absolutely last person he wants to see right now."


	17. Chapter 17

That morning, Greg Lestrade had thought he was going to have a perfectly boring Saturday. He didn't have to work, so he had slept in, had a very late breakfast that contained approximately two vitamins which clung to each other, crying softly because they were all alone, and drank half a pot of coffee.

He had just been contemplating the relative merits of staying in and watching telly all day over going out and doing something that wouldn't make his day off feel like a complete waste when Sherlock's text had come in and sent him racing across the city.

He certainly hadn't expected to spend his day on crisis management for one lovesick consulting detective.

But not even in his wildest dreams could he have imagined sitting in a pub with John Watson and listening to a convoluted story involving a whole marriage one of the participants hadn't known about, a crumbling friendship, and a six-week-long argument between an engaged couple about divorce papers that ended in the fiancée having an affair. All of which had culminated here, in this pub, right in front of Lestrade's astonished eyes as the whole story poured out of John over the course of a pint, a cider and a large glass of water.

"... and I honestly had no idea," John finished. "He never said a word."

He let his head fall back onto his arms and Lestrade didn't know whether to feel pity or anger.

He decided to approach things in chronological order. “So Sherlock drugged you and convinced you to get married?”

John shook his head but didn't lift it, his voice muffled by his sleeve as he spoke. “I … not really? He drugged _both of us_ and then _I_ suggested getting married and he went along with it. He swears up and down there was nothing mind-altering in there beyond what would erase our memories. Only his didn't work. But there was nothing in there that would have made me susceptible to suggestions or anything. He said he still has the formulas and samples if I want an independent scientist to test it. I believe him. I know it wasn't good but frankly it's hardly out of character for the sort of person he was at the time and I made my peace with that a long time ago. Also, I rather think he's learnt his lesson.”

Greg had to admit he was right about that. Which brought him back to the result of this unfortunate situation.

“And you honestly never once suspected how he felt?”

“Never,” John sighed. “This entire thing would have gone down very differently if I had. But he did a great job of pretending it had been a marriage of convenience and nothing more.”

Greg took a moment to digest that.

"God, you're a moron," was what he finally concluded. "Christ, John! I knew you were sort of oblivious to how utterly gone on you our boy genius was, but I didn't think it was that bad."

"That makes two of us," John muttered into his sleeve. "Bollocksed it up completely, didn't I? And to think I was seriously going to ask him to be my best man."

Lestrade winced. "The bloody idiot would have said yes, too, if you had, even if it killed him."

He stared down at the pile of misery opposite him. "Well, at least that makes more sense than him marrying some mysterious stranger."

To himself, he could admit how much that had disturbed him. Eight years was a long time to get to know someone, even someone as prickly and unforthcoming as Sherlock bloody Holmes, and Lestrade had been deeply unsettled by the idea of the man in question randomly falling for and marrying a stranger that none of them had ever seen.

To find out that it had been John all along made marginally more sense on an emotional and logical level, but was still almost incomprehensible in the context of John's story.

"And you really didn't know? About the marriage, I mean?"

"Not a fucking clue," John said, finally sitting upright again. He looked as if he had been hit by a lorry. "You can't possibly imagine my surprise."

Lestrade shook his head. He really couldn't. "And you never once considered just asking him why?"

John shrugged. "I tried. But we just ended up arguing every time we got anywhere near the topic. And I honestly couldn't handle thinking about it. At first I thought it had been his idea and he'd just coerced me into it, but I quickly realised that was bullshit. He does many fucked up things but he wouldn't ever do that. And he was honestly horrified when I suggested it. He said it was my idea. Which doesn't make much sense, because why would I suggest getting married out of the blue?"

He shook his head. "But that is all I know about it. I know it was my idea and he went along with it. He claimed at the time he did it because it was sensible, listed all the advantages like hospital visits and so on, and I didn't bother questioning him further. I suppose I should have known there was more to it. But it honestly didn't seem all that strange that he would say yes based on that reasoning alone."

Lestrade had to agree that John had a point there. It really wasn't difficult to imagine Sherlock doing something simply because it was the logical thing to do. However, the picture fell apart the moment you added John to the equation.

"So what are you going to do now?" he asked carefully.

John sighed. "Where is Sherlock now?"

"Still at Baker Street. I left him with Mrs Hudson, told her not to let him out of her sight. I think she knows."

"Of course she'd know," John muttered. "She was one of the witnesses, apparently. And she never said a word to me about it, either. Why is it that no one in this city ever just tells me things?"

Lestrade shrugged. "John, not to step in it or anything, mate, but you don't tend to react well to surprises. And you've always hated it when people brought up your relationship with Sherlock. Or assumed there was one."

John sighed. "Yeah, I suppose that's fair. I really could have handled that better. But how was I supposed to know? He never once so much as suggested..." He broke off and shook his head. "Listen, when we met, he told me he was married to his work. So I left it at that and it was fine. He never indicated he felt ... anything, really. I knew he liked me and I knew I was important to him. We were friends, so that was sort of a given. I never thought to question it further. And then he died and that was ... well, you remember."

Lestrade did and wished he could forget. "Yeah." He took a sip of his drink. "Don't want to ever have to go back to that, if it's all the same to you."

John nodded. "Me neither. Right, I had better get going. Try to sort out this mess before we all suffer any longer."

Greg nodded back. "What are you going to do?"

John smiled grimly. "I caused this mess, so I'm going to be the one fixing it. It was good seeing you, Greg. Maybe next time we can just talk about something that doesn't change my entire life, yeah?"

He left a tenner on the table and walked out.

Lestrade stared at the money, sighed and ordered a whiskey. At least he couldn't claim to have wasted his day off. And once this whole mess was over, he would pull John aside and give him a proper piece of his mind. But right now, Sherlock needed John more than he needed Greg to take him to task. That was fine. He could wait.

*****

John arrived at Baker Street half an hour later, his heart in his throat but his hands and breathing steady.

He met Mrs Hudson in the sitting room of 221b, where she sat in his armchair with a nice cuppa. She took one look at him, set her tea aside, stood, walked over and slapped him. Hard.

"I deserved that," John said softly, rubbing his cheek.

"Damn right you did, young man," she hissed at him. "To hurt our boy like that. What were you thinking, John?"

"I wasn't," he said. "Listen, I'll tell you everything later if you like. But for now I've got to fix this. Where is he?"

"In his bedroom," she replied and there were tears in her kind eyes. "Oh, John, he's a right wreck. You have to be very careful with him. If you're not here to make this right, you can turn around and walk away right now before I kick you out myself."

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Believe it or not but I didn't actually know what was going on. Did you never wonder why I didn't say anything about our wedding? I literally had no idea it had happened until Mary and I tried to apply for our licence. And when I came here to confront him, he didn't say anything about how he felt about it, of course. We weren't ... well, we weren't even talking, why on earth would he tell me anything at all that I might use against him?"

John shook his head and grasped her hands. "I'm going to make it right, Mrs Hudson. I promise you."

She must have seen something in his eyes because she nodded. "All right. I'll just be downstairs. You shout if you need anything and I'll make sure no one comes up to disturb you."

He nodded. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

She gave his hands a soft squeeze and left him alone in the flat.

With Sherlock.


	18. Chapter 18

John remained in the sitting room for a good five minutes, trying to steel himself for whatever was going to happen next.

He couldn't remember a time when he had felt that bad about himself and his own actions. But he could make this right.

Taking one last, deep breath to calm himself, he finally took off his shoes and jacket and wandered down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom.

There was no reply when he knocked, but he hadn't expected one. Slowly, he pushed the door open and then stayed standing there for a bit, staring at the figure on the bed as his heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

Sherlock lay with his back to him, still fully clothed in the beautiful suit he had worn earlier and curled up tight. For all his gangly limbs, he looked shockingly small. He was breathing very softly and John wasn't sure if he was even awake.

How had he managed to do this without realising it? How had he managed to look at Sherlock and say such horrible things and not realise how much he was hurting him?

Unable to stare at him any longer, he let his gaze drift around the room. It landed on the bedside table, which was almost entirely empty. Apart from the lamp and a book on fungi, there was only one thing on it: Sherlock's wedding ring.

John stepped forward and picked it up, turning the ring over and over in his hand. The inscription was rough under his fingers and he read it again. XXIX-I.

His breath stuttered.

29-1.

He should have known what it was immediately. The day they had met. It had been right there, all this time. He should have understood immediately, all the way back at the hospital when he had first seen it.

"Take it."

Startled, he looked up. Sherlock hadn't moved at all and his eyes were still closed. His body was tense. His voice sounded horrible. "I don't want it anymore."

John shook his head and set the ring back down. "No."

Sherlock's entire body stiffened further at the sound of his voice and John was surprised to realise he hadn't recognised him by his steps. God, this was bad.

"What now?" Sherlock asked. "Was there something else you wanted?"

From his position right beside the bed, John could see how tightly Sherlock's hands were clenched around a corner of his duvet. His knuckles were white.

"No," he said softly. "Just you."

Sherlock pulled his knees closer to his chest, made himself even smaller. "Please don't be cruel."

His voice was barely a whisper and John's heart broke clean in two at the words.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had climbed onto the bed and was pulling Sherlock towards him. He didn't resist, clearly too surprised to process what was happening, and John managed to get his arms around him and hold on tight, pressing his face into the space between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry, you have no idea."

Sherlock didn't move, still and stiff in John's arms. His breath came in shallow bursts, his heart thrummed under John's hand, far too fast for a body ostensibly at rest.

John sighed. "You never said a word. I'm ... I'm not good at this, Sherlock. You were always so intensely private that when you did tell me things about yourself, I took your word for it. What else could I do? It never even occurred to me, crazy as it sounds. I suppose I never considered myself much of a catch. How was I ever going to assume that you, of all people, would disagree?"

Sherlock took a tremulous breath and for a moment John thought he was going to speak but he stayed silent. He was listening, though, and that was enough.

"I never meant to hurt you," John whispered. "I need you to know that. I never once wanted to hurt you like that. Didn't know I could, to be honest. When I found out about our marriage, I was surprised. Dismayed, too. I mean, I suppose you can guess what it looked like to me. Married without my knowledge, married under the influence of some chemical compound. Of course I wasn't happy. And you listed all these reasons why, and how logical it was and how much sense it made at the time and I never once thought to question you further. I never once thought to assume you had an emotional stake in it. Lord knows I can be quite slow on the uptake sometimes."

Sherlock made no reply to that, either, but John thought he felt him relax the tiniest bit.

"And I was so stupid," he continued. "After you died and I met Mary, I clung to her like a drowning person clings to a piece of driftwood. She was all that kept me going. So when you came back, it was a shock. And it was terrifying. What if you disappeared again? What if you left me behind again? I knew I couldn't do it again. I told you the other day and I meant it: _I can't lose you again_ , Sherlock. So I tried to keep my distance out of sheer self-preservation because I knew that if I let you in again and you left, I wouldn't be able to cope. Imagine that. Staying away to avoid losing you. What a load of bullshit."

He shook his head at himself. "I was so glad to have an excuse to see you again, to talk to you again. To let go of all the anger and the hurt and the fear. But I couldn't let go of it completely. And I kept using Mary like a shield. It wasn't fair to her. Wasn't fair to you, either, or to myself. And she kept pushing and pushing and I was reluctant to bring up the divorce because deep down, I knew I was glad for the excuse not to marry her. But she kept insisting and I had run out of reasons to push back. She was right, after all. It had been long enough. I was sick to my stomach when I went home earlier. The papers felt like a rock in my coat. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to tell her."

Sherlock was dead silent in his arms, tense in a slightly different way. John could almost feel the disbelief radiating off of him.

A small laugh forced its way out of John's throat. "Remember that guy at the fundraising event who was flirting with you? Seeing you smiling at him hurt more than I wanted to admit even to myself. But when I came home today, already resolved to call off the wedding, and found Mary in bed with some stranger, I didn't feel a thing besides relief."

He shook his head. "How fucked up is that? It took me this long to realise I only loved her for the shield she provided rather than for her as a person. You don't need driftwood to cling to when you've got solid ground under your feet again. I can't believe it took me so long to understand that. I knew, deep down, that it wasn't going to work. I suppose that's why I was so reluctant to push the issue of the divorce once you and I were talking properly again. The more time I spent with you, the less I wanted her. It felt like a chore, like I was just going through the motions until I could go back to you. I hated asking you to sign these papers but I knew I had to. It was right. It was what was expected, even if I hated it. I'm very good at denying myself, as you might have noticed."

Sherlock made a very small noise then, one John had never heard before and never wanted to hear again. He tightened his arms around him. "So I have a suggestion for you and I want you to give me an honest answer, all right? And if you say no, that's fine and I will accept it and stay right here and be your friend if you still want me to. But if you are amenable, if you think you can possibly trust me enough for this, I want to give this marriage of ours a try. I want to take you out to dinner and be outrageously flirty and hold your hand and call you my husband. I want to make this work."

John took a breath and finally allowed himself to admit it out loud. "I want to make this work because I love you and I don't ever want to lose you again."

Sherlock made that noise again and abruptly turned around, burying his face in John's chest, his fingers letting go of the duvet to take hold of John's jumper instead.

There was nothing for John to do but wrap his arms around him tightly and hold him close, burying his face in Sherlock's hair and breathing him in. It felt like coming home.

He remembered how Sherlock had clung to him back at the hospital all those weeks ago when John had hugged him, how tightly Sherlock had held on to him. The devastation on his face when he had thought someone had stolen his wedding band. His joy on their outing to the museum, the light in his eyes whenever he had looked at John. God, how could he have been so blind? Looking back, it had been obvious.

It was clear from Sherlock's reaction that he was beyond words, that he couldn't bring himself to speak even if he knew what to say. He simply held on and it took a full five minutes before John realised that Sherlock was crying. His heart broke all over again.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered again. "I wish you had told me. I wish I had been braver and more honest with myself. I'll do anything to keep you, Sherlock. Anything at all. But only if you want me to stay. If this is too much, if you can't do this again, I won't begrudge you for it. I'll go if you ask me to."

That got a reaction. Sherlock threw one leg over John's, slotting their bodies together as close as he could, and shook his head.

John smiled. "All right. All right, love."

And he simply stayed where he was and held on tight.


	19. Chapter 19

He must have fallen asleep at some point. Sherlock concluded this because he had just woken up.

His head hurt and his throat felt sore and his eyes felt gritty. He knew those signs and immediately scrunched up his face. Why had he been crying?

The memory came back a moment later.

John.

John, wreaking havoc on Sherlock's emotions, tearing him to pieces and putting him back together in the space of several hours. He wasn't sure which parts of the entire day had been real and which had been a particularly wild hallucination.

But when he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the unmistakeable cable knit of John's favourite jumper.

Sherlock blinked several times in quick succession but the pattern stayed. So did the solid arm he could feel slung around his waist, holding him close. There was a hand pressed to his back, five fingers forming perfect points of heat that radiated through the thin fabric of his shirt. His leg was slung over John's and his fingers were tangled in John's jumper, probably creasing the wool beyond repair.

This was better than his wildest fantasies. This was John's scent in his nose and rough wool against his cheek and John's gentle breath in his hair and John in his bed. This was real.

And John had said ... John had said so many lovely things to him. An entire speech, just for Sherlock. It was more sentiment than Sherlock had ever heard him admit to. For all that everyone claimed Sherlock was reticent, they had clearly never once tried to get John to open up about his feelings. He was clammed shut more tightly than any oyster. And yet here he was, after having presented Sherlock with a fairly incredible speech that had culminated in... he breathed in and squeezed his eyes shut.

No, that couldn't have been real.

But John was right here, holding on to him as tightly as Sherlock clung to his jumper. He wouldn't have let John get that close if he hadn't said or done something significant.

And Sherlock's imagination wasn't good enough to imagine him saying that. Not those three words that he had longed to hear for so long.

They echoed in his mind and he let them drown him, entirely overwhelmed.

_'I love you. I love you. I love you.'_

John's voice, John's words. John, right here, holding him.

How did that fit with the other thing John had said earlier?

Doubt reared its ugly head in his mind and Sherlock tensed, torn between the desire to put some distance between them and to stay here forever. His flight reflex won.

He sat bolt upright.

"Sh'lock?" John mumbled and opened his eyes. He smiled. Then he registered the expression on Sherlock's face and the smile turned into something more serious. "Hey. What's going on?"

"You said..." Sherlock swallowed. The memory of this hurt. "You said you wanted to be married to someone you loved."

"Oh." John struggled upright as well. "Actually, I said I wanted to be married to someone I _could_ love."

Sherlock flinched and John grimaced. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. I meant ... I meant I wanted someone whom it was _safe_ for me to love. Someone I could love and be sure to have it returned. I don't know why I thought Mary fit the bill, but there you have it. It never occurred to me that you did. Greg had to tell me to my face."

Sherlock frowned. "Greg?"

"Lestrade," John clarified. "Called me and asked to meet with me after he left you in Mrs Hudson's care. He wanted to ask how much I knew about this marriage of yours, wanted some advice. Told me about your text and how he had found you and that you ...” He swallowed. “... that you loved your husband. And before I knew it, I told him the entire story. I honestly didn't have a single clue until he told me."

He shook his head, clearly upset with himself, and grasped Sherlock's hands. "I truly didn't know. Didn't dare to hope, really. I'm sorry it took me so long."

Sherlock stared down at John's hands on his, marvelling at the feeling of them covering his own. "I ... I wanted to tell you. I almost did, a couple of times. But every time I thought I might stand a chance, you brought up the divorce again, or Mary, or both. And every time, I thought I'd rather be your friend than your nobody. I didn't for a moment fool myself into thinking our friendship could survive it if I told you."

"But ... we got married," John said. "You - you must have known that I would find out about it at some point. You must have thought about how I would react."

"I did," Sherlock agreed. "At first, I didn't believe you'd just forget about it. Drugging you without your knowledge or consent was wrong and I am sorry, but I never really expected it to truly wipe your memory. I knew there was a chance it would, but it only really hit home the next morning, when you acted as if nothing had happened at all. And then I thought that was fine. We could just continue on as we had. It didn't change anything. And then Moriarty happened and I was sure you'd find out, then. I was sure someone would tell you and I figured it didn't matter because I couldn't see your reaction anyway. But then I came back and you were furious but you didn't mention it at all. Not once. And then you didn't speak to me at all, so I didn't get a chance to tell you even if I had thought of it. Quite honestly, there were more important things on my mind.” He shook his head, remembering those first few months after his return, desolate and John-less. “I just wanted to see you. I realised you still didn't have a clue when you showed up again four months later with the papers."

Even now, the rush of relief at the sight of John and the painful realisation of why he had come were hard to put into words. "I knew that if I signed the papers then, you'd walk away and I would never see you again. I couldn't do it, John. I suggested the first deal that came to my mind, hoping that if we spent enough time together, you'd give up on this delusion of wanting to marry her, hoping you'd just come home. I admit I was being a bit too optimistic there."

He lowered his gaze. "And I have to admit I never intended to sign. It felt like signing my soul away. I wanted you to stay so badly. I saw the way you looked at me at the function. I saw your jealousy when Alexander flirted with me. It gave me hope that maybe, if I played my cards right, you'd realise you didn't need her to make you happy. You spent so much of the past week complimenting me, I had started to think you were finally catching up. You can't imagine what it felt like when you asked me to sign again. I wanted to refuse, I really did. And then you said _that_ and I realised I had never stood a chance at all. That I had deluded myself all this time. I ... I honestly don't remember what happened beyond me signing those damn papers. I'm amazed I didn't just scream it in your face. I kept thinking it, you know? ' _Don't do this to me, I love you, I love you, I love you_ '." His voice broke and he couldn't bring himself to meet John's eyes for longer than a second.

"You didn't say a word," John said softly. "Not a single word."

He licked his lips, always a sign that he was uncomfortable but determined to plough onward. "But I hear you now. I hear you, Sherlock. And I love you, too."

*****

The look on Sherlock's face at these three words was beyond compare, something unbearably soft and vulnerable, all dressed up in a thick layer of disbelief.

John couldn't blame him for that. After everything that had happened, he would have been more surprised if Sherlock had simply accepted his words and moved on.

He hesitated. "You ... you never did answer me."

Sherlock blinked, eyes wide. "John ... of course I want this. It's all I've _ever_ wanted."

It felt like half the Alps were being lifted off his chest. John breathed in, then out, then in again, and tried to stop the goofy smile from spreading across his face. He wasn't very successful.

Unable to help himself, he let go of one of Sherlock's hands and reached out to cup his face, stroking his thumb along that devastating cheekbone. "Then it's exactly what you'll get."

He glanced at his watch. "After we've gotten some more sleep. It's the middle of the night. Come on, lie back down. We've had a stressful day, you can do with some rest."

Sherlock nodded against John's hand. "You're right. But perhaps not in these clothes. Give me a minute."

He untangled their hands with visible reluctance, grabbed his pyjamas and disappeared into the bathroom. John had to agree that was a smart move and decided to follow suit. He didn't have any clothes left at Baker Street, of course, but he pulled off his jumper and jeans anyway and rooted around Sherlock's closet to steal a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms from him.

When Sherlock returned from the bathroom, he stopped dead for a moment, staring at John as if he were seeing a mirage.

John smiled. "See something you like?"

Sherlock swallowed but smiled back. "Quite."

He climbed back into bed and they slid under the covers together, turning towards each other and resuming their earlier position on unspoken agreement.

Sherlock sighed. "I'll never get used to this."

"Aren't you comfortable?" John asked, concerned. "We can move if-"

"No, I mean ... this. I won't get used to this. Having you here with me. I'll never take it for granted, John."

"Oh."

John smiled and couldn't stop himself from pressing a kiss to Sherlock's dark curls. "That's all right. I'll be here anyway. We can be pleasantly surprised every day for the rest of our lives together."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, tightening his hold on him ever so slightly. "Let's do that."

They were almost asleep when John remembered. "Oh, wait!"

Sherlock made a vaguely inquisitive noise as John flipped on the light again and reached for the night stand. "Give me your hand. No, the other one."

By then, Sherlock had caught on to what John wanted. "John..."

"Please, let me do this. Let me make it right."

Mutely, Sherlock held out his hand. John held it gently, and equally gently lifted his other hand, holding Sherlock's titanium wedding band.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are the best, kindest man I have ever met. The most brilliant and beautiful, too. I don't deserve you and I haven't given you enough love and adoration, certainly not nearly as much as you deserve. But I will make it up to you if you'll let me. So, in good days and bad, at interesting crime scenes and on boring evenings at home ... be mine?"

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes shining. It took him two attempts to find his voice. "Yes."

John smiled and slid the ring back onto his finger, where it belonged.

*****

Some six hours later, Mrs Hudson, worried by the continued silence coming from upstairs, decided to bring her boys some breakfast. She rather hoped to find John still present in the flat, but was well aware that he might have left at some point in the night.

When she entered the kitchen, the flat was silent. She found John's coat and shoes where they always used to be and smiled to herself as she set her tray down. And because she was Mrs Hudson and didn't have any shame whatsoever, she snuck down the hallway to peek through the gap in the door into Sherlock's room, just to make sure her boys were all right.

They were curled up in Sherlock's bed, quite clearly dressed and just as clearly sound asleep. She took in the way their limbs were intertwined, noticed the ring on Sherlock's left hand and her smile widened. Her poor dears, they had been through too much for any one person to cope with. She was glad they had at long last found each other.

Still smiling, she tiptoed back down the hallway, scribbled a short note, propped it against the plate full of sandwiches she had made and left as quietly as she had come.

In the bedroom, Sherlock and John slept on, unaware of their visitor but secure in the knowledge that, for now, nothing bad could possibly happen to them. Not while they had each other to cling to.


	20. Chapter 20

When John woke up the next morning, he was not at all surprised to find half a dozen text messages by Lestrade waiting for him on his phone.

_'Good luck mate.'_

_'How is he?'_

_'Text if you need anything.'_

_'Is everything all right?'_

_'John, it's been 15h, if you don't reply, I'll come over'_

That last one had been sent half an hour ago. Sighing, John typed back a hasty reply.  _'All good, give us some time'_ and hit 'send'.

"What was that?" Sherlock murmured against his chest.

"Lestrade is worried about you. I told him we're fine and to give us some time."

Sherlock hummed. "He does make a surprisingly good listener."

That made John snort. "He's a police officer. Of course he knows how to listen. Providing a sympathetic ear while people tell you why exactly they were perfectly justified in murdering their neighbour is a main part of the job description."

"Hm, true. Never thought he'd use that on me, though."

"You did text him," John reminded him gently. "By the way, I'm glad you didn't take anything. That can't have been easy."

Sherlock gave a half-hearted shrug. "It really was just because I didn't have anything in the flat. I might have made it all the way through the flat but certainly not out of the house and towards the nearest dealer. Quite lucky, too. I'm honestly not sure I wouldn't have gotten the dose wrong."

John shuddered. "Don't ... please don't say that. Don't even think it. If I had lost you again..."

"I know," Sherlock murmured. "I know now. But yesterday, I didn't. Good thing it's a moot point."

John nodded slowly. "Yes. And it had better stay that way, too."

"I promise," Sherlock said softly. "I don't need it anymore."

They were both silent for a while, cuddled together in Sherlock's large bed, just enjoying each other's quiet company.

Finally, Sherlock spoke again, his voice very quiet. "John ... is this real?"

John smiled. "Yes. Amazingly, it is. More real than anything else I've ever done or felt in my life. And heaven knows I've seen a lot of real shit, as the kids call it."

Sherlock chuckled. "Hmmm. Is that what the kids call it, though? What would they call this here thing?"

"Cuddling," John said, smirking. "They call it cuddling."

He got an angry grumble in response but didn't really take it seriously because Sherlock made no move to shift away from him. "Do you know, I think I'd prefer another term."

John smiled. "Of course you do. And what term would you like to use instead?"

Sherlock leaned closer. "Making out?"

There was something hesitant yet hopeful in his voice that made John's heart clench.

"Oh," he murmured. "Oh, yes. May I kiss you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes shining. "Please."

So John cradled his cheek, stroking one thumb over that sharp cheekbone he had admired so often. Sherlock's eyes were wide open and fixed on him.

John smiled softly before closing the gap between them and pressing their mouths together.

Sherlock sighed against him, responding almost immediately, and John moved his lips a little, catching Sherlock's full upper lip between his and lightly sucking on it. Sherlock moaned and opened his mouth wider, crowding closer.

John had been planning on starting out slowly, on kissing him gently, softly, warmly, until Sherlock was well and truly snogged into oblivion, but of course Sherlock had to be so responsive, had to react to every movement with a sigh or a soft moan. His eyes had slipped closed already and John promptly found himself deepening the kiss far sooner than he had intended to do so, pulling Sherlock closer with a hand on his back.

Obediently, Sherlock opened his mouth a little farther and John licked inside, hungry for more of this and trying to tell himself to go slowly, to be gentle. For all he knew, Sherlock had never kissed anyone before this. He deserved for this to be done right.

Sherlock groaned, grasped two handfuls of John's t-shirt and rolled onto his back, pulling John with him. That hadn't been what John had intended at all but now that he was here, he found it difficult to remember why.

It was hard to remember to go slowly when Sherlock lay beneath him, gasping into his mouth and clinging to him, pliant and eager. His mouth was so very hot and John didn't want to be anywhere else, couldn't remember ever having _wanted_ to be anywhere else or do anything but kiss Sherlock for hours on end.

He kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, until they both forgot what it was like not to be doing this, until they barely noticed the little breaks for the breath they needed.

John couldn't remember the last time he had spent this much time just kissing someone, exploring a partner's mouth with that much attention to detail, or that much eagerness to know every last little thing. He didn't want to miss a moment of this.

Finally, he pulled away, breathing heavily.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at him, looking dazed and wonderfully flushed. His mouth was red and swollen from their kisses and his breathing came in soft, uneven pants.

"John ..."

"Did you like that?" John asked, had to ask. This was important.

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. "I- yes. More?"

John hummed and ducked back down to kiss him again, cradling his face in both his hands so he could angle his head the way he wanted to, fit their mouths together in ever new ways until Sherlock was whimpering beneath him, his fingers clutching at John's t-shirt. John felt a little smug at that. Kissing was one thing he knew he was good at, and he took pride in it. It was nice to know that Sherlock wasn't at all immune to that.

"Oh," Sherlock said softly. "John..."

He grasped John by the collar of his t-shirt and pulled him back down, mouth seeking his, lips urgent, and John groaned in response to the sudden change to their kiss, the added urgency and hunger coming from Sherlock. God, it felt good to be wanted. A treacherous voice in his head whispered that kissing Mary had never felt like that. He shoved it away. Not important now. Only Sherlock mattered. Sherlock beneath him, Sherlock's curious tongue licking into his mouth, testing the waters.

John responded gladly, moaning softly as their kiss deepened again, and let the hunger another inch off its leash.

This was perfection.

He didn't know how much time had passed when they finally separated again but thought it could have been hours. Sherlock was breathing heavily and his eyes were hooded and dark, his heartbeat too fast for someone at rest.

John smiled and stroked both thumbs over his cheekbones. "God, your mouth. I've wanted to do that for ages."

Sherlock blinked. "You have?"

And, oh, the insecurity in his voice, that vulnerability in his eyes, cut through John like a knife.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Longer than I wanted to admit even to myself. But it's always been true, even when I was busy denying it. Part of me always wanted this."

Sherlock smiled up at him. "All of me wanted this," he confessed. "Almost from the start."

John wasn't sure whether the sound he made was a laugh or a sob and he bent back down to muffle it against Sherlock's lips. "I wish I had known sooner."

But god, he had gotten so much now - Sherlock's mouth on his, Sherlock's body beneath his own ... John shifted a little, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Sherlock gasped and jerked as John's leg brushed against his obvious erection. It was too soon for that, they both knew it. "Sorry," John murmured. "Let me..."

He rolled to the side, pulling Sherlock with him until they lay side by side, staring at each other. "Slowly," John said softly. "We'll go slowly, yeah?"

Sherlock bit his kiss-swollen lower lip and nodded. "Yes. I want to go slow but I'm afraid I also really don't."

John laughed. "That's fair. But we'll keep the long-term goals in mind here, yeah? Instant gratification will feel nice for the moment but we both deserve something better than that."

He would have been a fool to miss the relief in Sherlock's eyes, even as it mingled with disappointment. John sympathised entirely. "Come here."

He pulled Sherlock closer again, wrapping his arms around him and slotting their legs together until they were as intertwined as they could possibly be while still dressed.

He pressed a series of kisses to any part of Sherlock's face he could reach in this position. "It's all right. Relax. We'll be fine. We've got all the time in the world to do nothing else but this."

Sherlock nodded. "I don't want to do nothing else but this," he murmured. "I want everything, John. I want to kiss your neck and your chest. I want to find out what your nipples feel like in my mouth and if there is any difference between them. I want to taste your skin and your sweat and your semen, if you'll let me."

John groaned at the picture Sherlock was painting in his head. "Oh, god yes. You can have all of that, love. All of it and more. But not all at once. Wouldn't want to overwhelm that beautiful brain of yours. And it will be, I promise you that."

Sherlock nodded again, very seriously this time. "Yes, I could tell just now. Kissing you shuts my brain down better than the cocaine ever did."

John laughed. "I'm glad. Next time everything gets to be too much, you can just come to me and I'll be happy to snog you until you quite forget what you were thinking about."

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured. "I'll be sure to repay the favour at any time."

"I'll hold you to that," John said, smiling. "I don't usually need to have my brain shut down but I can already tell I'll need to kiss you a whole lot."

A thought occurred to him. "Speaking of ... did I at least kiss you at our wedding?"

Sherlock hesitated and then nodded once, jerkily. "You did. Nothing like this, though. Nothing even close to this. I've been... trying not think about it."

"That's fair," John said softly. "I should have kissed you properly. I should have kissed you senseless."

"I think I was feeling quite senseless anyway, at the time," Sherlock admitted.

John ached at the implication. "I wish I remembered it," he said softly. "Will you finally tell me? You said it was my idea but I never fully understood how it happened or why. I suppose I didn't ask."

There was another hesitation, but it seemed less because Sherlock was unwilling to talk and more a case of him gathering his thoughts.

"Well, you know already that I slipped you that compound to see if it would induce a blackout. I took another version of it because it seemed easier to just check two options at the same time. I made detailed notes for myself so I would be able to check afterwards in case I ended up being the one affected. The day was perfectly normal for a couple of hours. You were going through your blog and reading your e-mails or whatnot. I think you got an e-mail from an army mate because you mentioned Bill Murray in an aside. And then you got very thoughtful for a while. At the time I thought you had been reminded of your time in Afghanistan, so I chose to let you be. I played the violin, something soothing, hoping it would help you stay calm. Brahms, I think. And then you sat up and said: "Do you think we should get married?". I was in the middle of the second movement and you usually didn't interrupt my playing unless it was important."

Sherlock smiled. "I almost dropped my violin."

John chuckled. "Well, I'm not surprised. That must have come out of nowhere."

"Perhaps if I had seen the e-mail, I would know what it said that got you to that point. It must have been somehow related to marriage but I don't know the specifics. All I can do is speculate, unless you still have the e-mail somewhere." He sighed. “I was so surprised, I actually forgot all about my experiment on the both of us. It came back to me the next morning.”

"So what happened then?" John asked. "You must have thought I was crazy."

"I asked you why," Sherlock remembered. "And you gave me a list of perfect reasons. That we needed to have access to each other if one of us got hospitalised, that we should have some sort of legal protection against being used as witnesses against one another - you reminded me of the cabbie you shot as a prime example - and that since we were sharing our lives and finances and everything else already, it only made sense."

John swallowed. "I can't believe I did any of that." He shook his head. "I mean, I believe you when you say I did, but I can't for the life of me figure out what must have possessed me."

Sherlock shrugged. "I was honestly too surprised to question your motives. And you were right. It did make sense. I hadn't realised at the time how desperately I _wanted_ to be married to you, but the moment you said it, I knew. And I agreed, because your reasoning was solid and I thought that it would ... that it would be a way for me to keep you. To stop you from walking out the door, if it ever came to that." He smiled sadly. "I suppose I was right about that. And I'm glad I said yes. I never would have seen you again otherwise, not after you told me so explicitly where I could stick my excuses for leaving you behind."

Wordlessly, John caressed his arm before leaning forward and pressing another kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Sherlock murmured. "What's done is done. I underestimated your anger and your grief. I had thought you would be so pleased to see me that forgiveness was inevitable. It did not occur to me how very hurt you were. I suppose I didn't realise that in your own way, you had married me because you wanted to keep me, too. And I left anyway."

His smile was rather brittle. "If anything, it taught me that even being married wouldn't be enough to make you stay. That having a signed document was nothing but a way to slow you down on your way out. But I didn't see it that way at the time. I questioned you on your motives when you first suggested it but you were adamant about your reasoning and I had no cause not to believe you. I would have been able to tell if you had lied to me. But of course you were also lying to yourself about your true motives and you had yourself utterly convinced. So we decided to do it quickly because the next dangerous case could be right around the corner and there was no point in wasting time. You called Mycroft. I told you that if I did it, he would never agree and think it a joke. But you weren't the type for that sort of prank. He requested my confirmation anyway, and you told him all our reasons for doing it. Mycroft has little use for sentiment - in his eyes, it was the perfect arrangement."

Here, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He thought it would be splendid to have me 'settling down'. He hoped you would be a good influence on me. He liked the idea of having someone legally obliged to be on my side against the rest of the world, as he put it. You didn't have a hard time convincing him to speed up the process for us. And because you were the one asking for it to happen, he had no reason to believe that it was a scheme of mine. He seemed... pleased."

John sighed. "I bet. Remember when he abducted me, the day after we met at St. Bart's? He asked if he might be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week. Me calling to arrange our wedding must have been like Christmas coming early to him."

Sherlock smiled. "You never mentioned that to me."

"It didn't seem relevant at the time," John said. "I was too distracted by having been abducted by what I thought was your arch enemy and quite probably a mob boss or something similar."

That earned him a snort. "Ha. No, Mycroft would hate all the dirty work and the brute force. He uses those, too, don't get me wrong, but he prefers finding ways to elegantly and subtly make the law play into his hands rather than breaking it. It lacks elegance."

John grinned. "Well, Mycroft, as we know, is all about elegance."

Sherlock laughed. "Quite." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, that is what happened. We realised we would need witnesses. Mycroft was a given. You decided to ask Mrs Hudson as it made sense for our landlady to know we were married in case anything happened to either of us. Needless to say, she was delighted. I don't think she bought either of our reasons for a moment. In her eyes, it was very much a- a love match."

"Mmmh," John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's jawline. "I suppose Mrs Hudson was the only one who not only saw but also observed, then."

Sherlock moaned softly and his voice shook a little as he continued. "Y-you think? Anyway, Mycroft had all the papers ready within the hour. Looking back and given your words, I think he's had them ready from the day you moved in. He had his underlings hack the registrar's office's systems and fooled them into thinking we had a long-standing appointment that they had somehow missed. We went there, all our papers were in order, they decided it must have been an oversight on their part and we were married. It took less than half an hour. Afterwards, we went back home and had dinner and watched something on the telly and you eventually went to bed. I stayed up all night and when you came downstairs the next morning, you had no recollection of what had happened. And you already know why I chose not to mention it to you."

John nodded. He had to admit that this was not how he would have imagined any wedding of his. And yet, considering the circumstances, he also couldn't have imagined anything else for them. Well, not for the way they had been back then.

*****

John was quiet for a long time after Sherlock had finished his recounting of their wedding day. He looked pensive and a little sad and Sherlock took heart in the fact that John was still holding on to his hand with his left hand and absently stroking his chest with the other. He might have been a bit worried otherwise. As it was, he was happy to simply let him process this information.

In fact, Sherlock found himself quite happy with his situation in life, for once. His lips felt a bit sore from all the kissing, which was definitely a pleasant sensation, if unfamiliar. His nerves tingled everywhere John touched him and something as innocent as a hand stroking up and down his arm sent shivers down his spine.

He couldn't remember ever having been this incandescently happy. Just this once, he had everything he wanted.

Finally sharing the story of their wedding, lacking in sentiment though it had been, was a huge weight off his chest as well. He wished he could have told John earlier. He wished he had simply told him without waiting for John to ask. Perhaps he would have understood then. Or perhaps he would have insisted on a divorce far earlier than he eventually had done.

No, Sherlock decided. All things considered, things had gone as well as could have been expected. Sure, he could have done without yesterday's painful argument, but they had made it in the end. And John was here now. John had kissed him. John had said he wanted to give this marriage a chance. Sherlock would do anything at all to make sure he didn't regret it.

Finally, after almost a quarter hour of silence, John sighed and pulled him close, pressing his ear to Sherlock's chest and listening to his heart beat. Sherlock was content to let him, wondering if he could hear his name in the rhythm. No, perhaps that was too fanciful a thought. But he wished it anyway.

He wrapped his arm around John to hold him close and brushed his lips across his temple, amazed that he was allowed such a thing now.

Affection. How strange it felt. How strange it was to finally be able to show it so easily, to display it without hesitation, without fear of being rejected.

For the longest time, he hadn't known he wanted this. And by the time he had, it had been too late already. Now, though, there was nothing holding him back. Not only that, but John was returning every touch, holding on to him and keeping him anchored.

Sherlock sighed and relaxed. He could stay like this for hours and be perfectly content. No experiment or crime could possibly be more engaging than this - holding on to John and being held in return.

After several long minutes of this comforting closeness, John stirred a little and leaned back enough to look Sherlock in the face.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"Our wedding... doesn't sound like it was very nice," John said lamely.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was you and I. I don't need anything else."

That earned him a soft, fond look. "No," John agreed. "But you deserve better. So I was thinking ... we should have a do-over. A proper wedding ceremony. Invite our friends, and your parents, have a cake or something and make a lovely day of it. Something worth remembering. Because I want to remember it, Sherlock. I want to remember sliding a ring onto your finger and making my vows and hearing yours. I want to have a ring on my hand and I want you to be the one who puts it there, and I want everyone who matters to us to see you do it." He took a breath and looked directly into Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock Holmes ... will you marry me again?"

Sherlock stared.

And stared.

And stared.

And then he surged forward, crushing their mouths together with all the desperation of someone who wanted to say a whole lot of things and didn't have the faintest clue of where to start. He poured it all right into this kiss instead, kissing John and kissing him and kissing him some more until they were both breathless, their hearts thrumming in their chests, hands clutching each other close.

"Yes. Oh, John, yes!"

Something wet hit John's cheek and it took Sherlock an embarrassingly long time to realise it was a tear and that he was crying. When had that happened?

His hands were shaking and his breath was coming in uneven gasps - admittedly this might be due to the kissing - and there were more tears where the first one had come from.

He buried his face in John's chest, letting the evidence of his sentiment soak the soft fabric of John's threadbare t-shirt.

"Hey, hey, hey," John murmured, gently patting his back. "Shhh, it's all right, Sherlock. It's all good, love."

Sherlock sniffed and held on tighter, breathing in the scent of John and basking in the warmth of him, his body right there, the steady thrum of his heart under Sherlock's ear, his strong arms wrapped tightly around him.

"I love you," he finally managed, and wondered if he would ever get used to saying it out loud.

"I love you, too," John said and kissed his forehead.

Sherlock thought he might expire from happiness.


	21. Chapter 21

They stayed holed up in the flat all day long, unwilling to be farther away from each other than the next room and loathe to admit any company into the little bubble they had created for themselves.

When they first walked into the kitchen, they found the plate of sandwiches Mrs Hudson had left, along with a note that said _"Welcome home, John. Hold on tight"_.

"That woman," John sighed. "I suppose we should have known better than to think we would get anything past her for even a single day."

"Did you want to?" Sherlock asked.

John laughed. "No. But I suppose it would have been quite nice to be the one to tell _her_ we are in love, rather than the other way around."

Sherlock looked at him, a curiously soft expression on his face.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled and stepped closer. "You said we're in love."

"We are," John said, puzzled. "Have you not been paying attention?"

"I just like hearing you say it," Sherlock admitted, somehow even closer now, though John honestly couldn't recall having seen him move. "I like hearing you finally admit it."

"I like being able to finally admit it," John said softly, putting his hands on Sherlock's waist and pulling him close. "I fought it for so long. I was so convinced it could never happen, I thought it would be better to deny feeling it at all."

"Well, I always said you were an idiot," Sherlock murmured and his tone said he didn't mean it that way at all.

John smiled. "Quite right."

He pulled Sherlock down and kissed him, both of them moaning in relief the moment their mouths met.

Sherlock's warm breath on his face, in his lungs, his soft hair curling around John's fingers as he tried to angle Sherlock's head for better access ... god, it was intoxicating.

When they finally separated, they were on the sofa. Or rather, John was. Sherlock was kneeling above him, sitting in his lap, hands clasped around John's shoulders.

They were both breathing heavily, mouths just inches away from each other, and John could feel Sherlock trembling faintly where his hands rested on his hip and back.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You're brilliant."

Sherlock smiled and dipped his head. "Only because you make me shine, John."

A statement like this warranted another kiss, of course, and it took several minutes before they managed to separate once more, rather reluctantly.

"This is ... not conductive to going slow," Sherlock gasped against John's throat as John gathered him close.

"No," John agreed. "But we can just stick to this for as long as we like. I'd be more than happy to snog you senseless for hours on end."

"Well," Sherlock said slowly. "We do have all day and absolutely no plans whatsoever."

They did eventually get up and eat the sandwiches Mrs Hudson had left for them - mostly because John's stomach had started growling rather insistently until Sherlock had broken away from him to mock him about it. After that, they zapped through the telly programme rather mindlessly before letting some nature documentary drone on in the background while they lazed about on the sofa, curled up close together, Sherlock's head resting on John's chest and John's hands in his hair, stroking idly. His other hand was entangled with Sherlock's, playing with the ring on his finger.

"I can't believe you went out and got yourself a ring," he murmured. "And you had it engraved, too."

"It's the day we met," Sherlock said softly. "The day my whole life changed, though I didn't know it at the time."

John smiled. "Not just yours. When did you get it?"

"Huh? Oh, the ring. On our wedding day, actually. I have a jeweller who owed me a favour."

"Of course you do," John said fondly. "And you didn't get one for me?"

"You're not the type for jewellery," Sherlock pointed out. "A ring might catch on all sorts of things. You're a doctor. I thought a ring would be a hindrance to you."

"Not if you're the one putting it on my finger," John said. "Though I suppose it was just as well. Imagine if I had woken up with no memory of our wedding but a ring on my finger. I think I would have had rather a lot of questions then."

"True," Sherlock allowed. "So it all worked out for the best in the end."

"I never saw you wear it," John murmured. "Not until after we argued about the divorce papers that first time."

Sherlock shrugged and barely flinched at the reminder. "I knew you would ask questions if you saw it before then. Sometimes, when I was alone in the flat or in my room, I would put it on just to remind myself what it felt like. But it never quite compared to having you put it on me. I gave it to Mycroft for safekeeping when I ... left. It was the only thing I demanded back from him immediately upon my return, even before I agreed to let anyone see to my injuries."

"And you claim sentiment isn't your area," John murmured. "Deep down you're a big old softie."

"I resent the 'old'," Sherlock said, a smile in his voice.

John chuckled and stroked his hair some more, enjoying the soft sound of happiness it seemed to elicit from Sherlock.

"I want one," he finally said.

"What?"

"A wedding ring. I want one. Titanium, just like yours, with the same date and everything. And I want you to put it on my finger when we renew our vows. We're married already. We can tell our friends we never got around to having a proper ceremony and just renew our vows and then have a private party afterwards. Anything you want. But I want a ring."

Sherlock lifted his head. "You're certain?"

"Absolutely."

Sherlock nodded. "All right. Let's arrange a date and tell Lestrade and so on. My parents will be delighted."

John smiled. "Let's send them a proper invitation, eh? Your mother will love that, I'm sure."

The thought made Sherlock light up. "Yes! She'll be absolutely insufferable, I hope you know this. And she'll lose her mind when she realises it's just a renewal of vows and that we have in fact been married for quite some time. We had better keep an explanation ready for the inevitable barrage of questions."

"Just tell her the truth," John said. "I won't start off my relationship with my new mother-in-law by lying to her."

He paused as he realised what he had just said.

"Oh my god! I have in-laws now!"

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, John."

John smirked. "You have a sister-in-law now. Harry's going to lose it when she hears that."

That earned him a grimace. "Must she?"

"She's my sister. We'll invite her to the ceremony and she can crow about always having known it and that will be it."

"If you say so." Sherlock didn't sound convinced but he let it go and switched the topic. "So, when do you want this ceremony to happen, then?"

"Soon," John said immediately. "We've waited long enough, don't you think? We can misuse Mycroft to hire a nice spot on short notice and have the celebration there. Something outside, if we can, or a nice room somewhere. I honestly don't care as long as you're there and we can fit in the people we want to have there with us."

Sherlock nodded. "All right. May I make a proposal of my own then?"

"Of course."

Sherlock hesitated, suddenly shy. "I ... I want a proper wedding night."

John was quite certain his brain blanked for a moment there. "A... what?"

"A wedding night," Sherlock said, voice quiet. "We said we'd go slow. There you are then. We arrange a date for the ceremony and that's it. We'll hold back until then."

"Is that an attempt to make us slow down?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "Not quite. It's actually meant to make us set this date as soon as possible."

That startled a laugh out of John. "God, I love you. Come here."

And he pulled Sherlock up a little so he could kiss him again.

*****

_1 month later_

The day of the renewal of their vows dawned bright and early, though neither of them noticed. They had been awake for an hour already, lazing about in bed and making out in that soft, warm cocoon of peace they had created for themselves. The entire day was going to be absolutely mad, so they were content to enjoy this oasis of calm while it lasted.

"It's customary for the couple not to see each other before the wedding," John had mumbled in half-hearted protest the night before.

Sherlock had given him an incredulous look. "John, we've been married for years. I refuse to spend a single night apart from you without a proper reason and society's customs are not a good reason. Society frequently gets things wrong."

John had given in immediately, mostly because it had only been a token protest anyway and he had no intention of spending the night away from Sherlock either.

They had gotten used to sleeping in the same bed, though that was all they did, safe for the snogging and occasional make-out sessions that turned the air hot and heavy around them.

He honestly didn't know how they had made it through the month without jumping each other's bones - they had certainly had ample provocation and more than enough built-up desire between the two of them.

Still, they had held back and John thought it was mostly because they enjoyed the teasing and the anticipation. Now, with Sherlock warm and still lax from sleep in his arms, he couldn't help but think that tonight couldn't come soon enough. Even his skin seemed to ache with the need to touch and be touched.

Sherlock gave a lazy hum and trapped one of John's legs between his, slowly rocking his hips against John's thigh.

John moaned softly. "God, Sherlock."

"Eighteen hours left, approximately," Sherlock murmured against his mouth. "Maybe twenty, if the celebrations last unexpectedly long."

John grinned. "Sixteen, and if you think I'm not sneaking you away from our own wedding ceremony, you're absolutely wrong."

He turned his head just enough to be able to reach Sherlock's throat and press a lingering kiss to the soft skin there, pressing his leg just a bit harder against Sherlock's pelvis. "Unless you've changed your mind about waiting?"

Sherlock groaned and shook his head. "No. We're doing this right. I'm not having you debauch me before all our friends and families have heard you pledge yourself to me for good."

"Technically I've done that already," John murmured against his too-quick pulse. "But I take your point. And I want it to be clear that I won't debauch you until you have pledged yourself to me in the same manner. Wouldn't want there to be an imbalance between us."

"I'll pledge myself and all that I am to you, John, and I won't accept anything less in return," Sherlock murmured into his ear. "There will be no imbalances. We're done with those."

He rocked his hips again and John groaned. "Except of course for any off-balance walking on our part," Sherlock added, smirking. "You better get up and have a shower now unless you want to embarrass yourself. I give it another five minutes before Mrs Hudson comes up the stairs to wake us and insist we need to start getting ready."

"Meddlesome woman," John grumbled. "Fine. And I promise to make it quick because I'm quite certain you'll need that shower yourself."

"Hmm, only to clean up," Sherlock replied, a teasing glint in his eyes.

He rolled onto his back and John could feel one of Sherlock's hands sliding down between their bodies, intent on finishing what they had started.

He groaned again and sat up. "God, you're a tease. I can't wait to pay you back for this tonight."

Sherlock stared at him through half-lidded eyes. "Trust me, John, I'm all eager anticipation."

"Fuck." John hauled himself out of bed and all but fled to the bathroom before he ended up derailing their plan of waiting at the last minute.

Neither of them did it for the sake of adhering to customs. They had simply agreed to wait because Sherlock had asked for a proper wedding night and John would give him anything he wanted if it was at all possible. This  _was_ possible, though it had been scraping both their nerves raw to keep teasing each other without ever actually taking things too far.

Two weeks ago, they had listened to each other wank in the dark and he had almost expired from sheer lust just from hearing the sounds Sherlock had made.

"Pull yourself together, Watson," he murmured to himself as he stepped into the shower. "You just have to get through today and then you can have him."

The thought, coupled with the memory of Sherlock's body pressed against his own, was almost enough on its own and it only took a couple of strokes for him to fall apart.

He showered as thoroughly as he could, had an equally thorough shave in front of the bathroom mirror and inspected himself carefully.

He was getting married today. Fuck this whole 'renewal of vows' thing they had been sprouting. Both he and Sherlock knew that today was about more than just that. This time, he was going to remember every single moment. He couldn't wait to stand before Sherlock and make his vows, couldn't wait to kiss him in front of their friends and families - correction: their  _family_ , singular - and know that Sherlock was truly his.

It had taken them so long to get to this point and now that they had finally reached it, he couldn't really explain why it had taken them this much time. Perhaps it didn't really matter, in the end, because they were here now and that was all that mattered.

*****

Although John had promised himself to remember every moment, the entire day seemed to consist of a series of snapshots in his mind's eye that evening.

Seeing Sherlock in the world's most stunning tuxedo, with a small bunch of forget-me-nots stuck through the button hole at his lapel and a glint in his eyes that suggested he knew exactly what John thought about that particular choice of flowers.

The smile on his sister's face, wider than any he had seen from her in at least ten years as she sat in the front row.

The tears in the eyes of Mrs Hudson and Sherlock's mother and the way they had not at all surreptitiously wiped them away with handkerchiefs.

Mycroft's unusually pleased expression and something that might almost, _almost_ have been a smile, though it was of course immediately wiped away when he caught John looking at him.

The equally pleased grin Lestrade shot his way - though how the man managed to smile while sitting next to Mycroft was not something John understood.

But mostly it was just Sherlock.

The light in his eyes and the way his bottom lip trembled when John made his vows. The suspicious shine of tears and the slight tremor in his voice when he made his own.

The way his fingers curled around John's and held on tight and how his hands didn't shake at all when the put the engraved titanium ring on John's finger, a perfect match to his own.

The warmth of his lips as John kissed him right there in front of all their friends and family until they were both breathless and slightly unsteady on their feet.

The look of bliss on his face as John fed him a piece of the Black Forest gateau Mrs Hudson had baked for them.

And, most of all, the sheer love in his eyes as they danced, arms wrapped around each other, their faces so close their noses were almost touching.

"God, I love you," John murmured to him. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?"

"Hopefully at least as much as I love you," Sherlock whispered back. "But you can show me later. I'll be all to happy to have you demonstrate it at length."

John chuckled and forced his mind to a different topic before he could embarrass them both on the dance floor.

"Forget-me-nots?" he asked softly, playing with the flowers at Sherlock's lapel.

"They seemed appropriate," Sherlock said, shrugging. "I made absolutely sure there would be no chemicals anywhere near our drinks today and I've made Mycroft record every single second of it for posterity, from multiple angles, in high definition. His penchant for surveillance does come in handy at the oddest times."

John barked a laugh at that, letting his head drop to Sherlock's shoulder. "You're a mad bastard and I love you."

"Now don't you forget that," Sherlock said, and winked.

> The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, my friends.  
> Thank you so much for joining me on this adventure and for trusting me on this ride despite my refusal to indicate how many chapters this would have until the end.  
> I hope you enjoyed this one - and I assume you did, if you read this far - and I also hope I will see you again for the next adventure I'm sending these two idiots on. I'm not even close to finished writing all the stories in my head.  
> Thank you for your support and your enthusiasm, I hope you know that this sort of response really is what keeps us writers going.  
> See you next time!


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